


Difficulty Breathing

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Gen, Hospitalization, Kidnapping, Self-Mutilation, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Ignis and Noct are kidnapped. Ignis will do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep Noct safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> Reposting from the FF kinkmeme: https://final-fantasy-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/3040.html?thread=22240#cmt22240
> 
> Any concrit is more than welcome! Thank you for reading!

Ignis didn’t remember how, exactly, they’d been found, or kidnapped, or taken to the place they were now in, a stop-off point while they waited to be — presumably — transported out of the city.  
  
His head pounded, filled up with the sickly feel of something not quite right, slowness and fuzziness. He guessed a drug of some kind, given that the pain was not localised, and besides, he was fairly sure just hitting someone over the head didn’t work the way it did in the films. His tongue felt too big in his mouth. He was thirsty, enough that his throat ached with it, a sharp pain for water pounding behind his eyes. He was sure if he weren’t already sitting, slumped against a cold, tiled wall, he’d be dizzy enough he wouldn’t be able to stand. He couldn’t access the armiger, either. Couldn’t even feel it through the hangover fog clouding his head.  
  
His hands were tied behind his back with twine, at both wrists and elbows, forcing his chest forwards and shoulders back with the strain of holding his arms together. His hands were numb and swollen; the twine cut deep into his skin, sawing at it like cheese wire. It was hard to move his chest well enough to breathe.  
  
He had a cloth bag over his head, scratchy fabric, thin enough to let in some light but not enough to see through. His breathing, small and harsh and attempting to stay calm but failing, made the air over his face humid and oxygen-thin. His shoes were gone; his ankles were tied together also, left crossed over right, and no matter how much he shifted couldn’t get it to loosen even enough to stop it hurting so much. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and it made him sick, nausea gripping his stomach and throat. He couldn’t tell how much was the drug and how much was fear.  
  
He didn’t know where Noct was. He wanted to cry. They’d only gone out after Noct’s school to buy ice cream, and now here he was and who knew where Noct was — Noct, who was their real target, and what if he was being hurt? What if they’d already killed him, killed him hours ago while Ignis had been unconscious, dumped his body and—  
  
Ignis bit down on his tongue, trying to distract himself with the sharp pain. No. He was the disposable one here. Noct would be kept alive. They wouldn’t go to all this effort kidnapping him just to kill him.  
  
His heart thumped, hard, fast, like it was trying to escape up his throat and out his mouth. He twisted his hands and felt the twine cut into his wrists a little deeper. His knees and shins hurt from where they were pressed against the hard floor, leeching cold in through the thin fabric of his trousers. He thought it might be more comfortable to sit with his legs stretched out in front of him, but he wasn’t sure he could make his body move.  
  
The Kingsglaive would come and rescue Noct. That’s what they did. Of course they would, and neither he nor Noct would be hurt, and this would never happen again.  
  
Footsteps, coming closer, heavy and brisk, more than one person. Ignis froze, except for his chest heaving for breath, each ragged inhale tugging his arms apart and tightening the twine wrapped around his elbows. Were they coming for him? He could be strong for Noct. He would be strong for Noct. He was almost an adult; in another few months he’d be officially Crownsguard. Crownsguard didn’t fall apart at even the threat of trouble, a few lengths of rope and a cloth bag.  
  
He ground his teeth together as the footsteps stopped, and a key turned, and the door to his room opened. The urge to throw himself away from the sound of them approaching gripped him, made him tremble; Crownsguard training told him not to struggle, not to put up a pointless fight. A moan built in his throat and burst out when hands grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him up off the floor. He felt himself burn with shame as a man behind him laughed, and hands were on him, holding his upper arms with painful strength, holding his ankles, forcing him to stand upright. Ignis twisted — he couldn’t stop himself — as legs threatened to buckle beneath him, his balance long gone. Fingertips dug into his arms, bruisingly hard. The twine around his ankles tightened then went slack, and hands unwound the lengths from him.  
  
‘ Walk,’ a woman said, sounding half stern, half bored. Hands shoved him forwards, and he only didn’t fall straight over because he was still being held up by the hands around his arms. A hand landed on top of his head, turning it sharply, and Ignis flinched away with his whole body. The hand gripped the bag, catching strands of his hair, and pushed him into a stumbling trot out the door, into the corridor.  
  
It was cold; in only his shirt and thin summer trousers, he could feel goosebumps rise on his bare arms. The floor was hard under his feet, gritty, cold leaching out of him through his socks. He wanted to twist away from the hand still on his head, pushing him on, and the grip on his upper arm. They were walking too fast; he couldn’t see. His legs were shaking, threatening to buckle at any moment, give up and drop him to the floor. Every step he felt like he’d trip over, even if it was over nothing, or his own feet. It seemed like only the momentum kept him going. He panted into the bag over his head, feeling like he was suffocating, eyes squeezed shut. He tried to focus on the pins and needles running up and down his legs, a familiar pain.  
  
Some indeterminable amount of time later — one minute? Two minutes? Ten? He felt sick, his stomach turning — the sound of another door unlocking came from ahead of them, and he still wasn’t prepared for how he was jerked to the side mid-step, head yanked sideways as he was shoved through the open door.  
  
He fell to his knees, the pain of it jarring all the way up and down his legs, hips to ankles. Without his hands to balance him he tipped over, hitting his shoulder, falling flat onto his face. He couldn’t stop the yelp, pathetic, and the way he curled up, gulping in air, face screwed up as he gasped and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to not cry any more than he already was. His face hurt, hot and throbbing across his cheek and forehead where he’d hit the ground. He could imagine everyone standing around him. He was sure the skin on his wrists had torn, and he could feel blood on his hands, dripping off his forearms.  
  
‘ Ignis?’  
  
‘ Noct?’ Ignis twisted, trying to get his legs under him so he could at least sit up. His heart was racing, adrenaline surging through him at Noct’s voice. His own voice was dry, thick, barely a cracked whisper.  
  
‘ Ignis — no, don’t touch him! Ignis—’  
  
Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him onto his knees, and Ignis couldn’t do anything but let them. His head was spinning; he couldn’t seem to suck in enough air. His heaving chest pulled at his arms, tightened the twine, made it cut deeper.  
  
‘ Stop that!’ Noct’s voice was panicky, high-pitched. ‘Let him go!’  
  
‘ Noct,’ Ignis said, then retched, gagging as his throat tightened. ‘Noct,’ he said, ‘don’t — I’m fine. I’m fine.’  
  
‘ You’re bleeding! Like hell you’re fine!’  
  
Noct sounded close to hysterical. Ignis pulled against the hands shoving him back against a wall, grabbing his legs to hold them and tie them back together. ‘Noct,’ he said, and even though his head was spinning, body hurting, sharp and panicky, he managed to put on his stern voice, the one he used when he still had a grip on his temper but it was a close thing. ‘Noct, stop it.’  
  
It occurred to him that if Noct could see he was bleeding he mustn’t have his head covered, and possibly he didn’t have his arms and legs tied, or at least not tied as tightly as he did. Not that it would help him escape, given how many there were guarding them, but at least he’d be more comfortable. He didn’t sound like he was in pain.  
  
Noct didn’t reply. His breathing was wet, unsteady. Was he crying? The urge to crawl forwards on his knees, to try and find him and give him what little comfort he could, even with his hands and legs tied and a bag over his head, was dizzying. The thought of their kidnappers watching him — watching Noct — made his stomach churn, and fear run through him like cold water, raw, vulnerable, a small animal in the paws of a larger, predatory one. He still didn’t know what they wanted. His head hurt, and his arms and shoulders and ankles, and he felt sick.  
  
The Kingsglaive would be searching for them. Every moment more was a moment closer to them being found and rescued. He just needed to hold himself — and Noct — together until then. And if that meant that the two of them would be compliant, model captives, then they would be. Anything to mean Noct didn’t get hurt. Anything to get him back safely.  
  
There was movement, people walking around him, going in and out of the room. The sound of distant talking. They weren’t stupid enough to talk in front of them. Ignis strained to hear but couldn’t make out anything. Not over his own rasping breath, amplified by the bag. He wished he could hear; he wished he knew what they wanted. If they were just keeping him and Noct hostage and were planning on releasing them eventually — though, he thought, with a sudden, cold, terrible feeling, if they were planning that they wouldn’t have let Noct see them.   
  
No. They just — maybe they all wore masks. Maybe Ignis was the only one blindfolded because — because—  
  
Useless speculation. No good.  
  
He wished he could see Noct. His eyes were hot, prickling. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything as much as to be able to see Noct. Hold him and comfort him and deliver him to safety, and be with him, and be safe with him.  
  
‘ So, kids,’ a voice said, nasal and almost startlingly young: a woman, with an accent Ignis couldn’t place except as from outside Insomnia. ‘Looks like we’ve got some time to kill.’  
  
There was the sound of something; a rustle and thump, things Ignis couldn’t place. Noct sniffled, and that Ignis could place — the sound of his fear, instantly recognisable from dark bedrooms and old nightmares.  
  
‘ How about we have some fun?’  
  
Another sound, heavy and metallic this time. Noct bit back a moan, a sobbing, muffled sound that made Ignis’ heart beat hard and painful, like a needle was trapped inside one of its chambers.  
  
There was nothing he had to bargain with. His life wasn’t worth anything like Noct’s was; whatever their plan was regarding Noct and the price of his life and wellbeing, Ignis was supplementary. He’d probably only been taken because it was easier than to leave him. His good behaviour was guaranteed when they held Noct’s life, even his comfort, in their hands, regardless of whether they’d actually go so far as to permanently maim or kill him. Just the threat of making him hurt was enough. He had nothing they wanted, nothing he could threaten with, no leverage or hold or anything the least bit tempting.  
  
For a moment he wished they’d killed him instead of taking him captive. He might as well be dead, with as much good he was doing Noct. But that was selfish. And maybe they would be able to both get out of this alive. And maybe he could distract them from Noct, with his body maybe, or something,  _ anything. _   
  
So he said, ‘Please don’t harm him.’  
  
A hand grabbed the bag over his head and yanked it back and down, forcing his neck to arch until his breath whistled in his throat. ‘Say that again,’ the woman said.  
  
‘ Please — please don’t harm him,’ Ignis said again, arching his back to try relieve some of the pressure on his neck. He was trembling, wanting to shake away the hand but forcing himself not to, wanting to disappear into invisibility while at the same time realising with cold, terrifying surety that maybe they wanted something from him after all, and to keep them away from Noct he needed to be as prominent as possible. ‘I’ll do anything,’ he said: a gamble.   
  
‘ Anything?’  
  
‘ I won’t hurt Noct,’ Ignis said, the words croaking out of his mouth. It occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t refer to Noct with that nickname, but it was too late now.  
  
The hand let go of his head, shoving him forwards in the same rough motion. He yelped, tipped, and was only saved from landing on his face by a hard grip on his left wrist, yanking his arms up and back. Then he was twisting, falling forwards again as the twine binding him was cut, only to be caught, held up and off the floor only by that grip on his wrist, hanging him from it. His right hand scrabbled at the floor, trying to brace himself, take some weight from his left arm. Another yank upwards, a harsh shake, and his arm felt like it would tear from its socket, fall apart like a wad of wet paper. He couldn’t stop himself from crying out as his swollen hand and grinding joints screamed out their pain.  
  
It took a moment to realise something was being pressed into his left hand — he could barely feel it, and only just managed to curl his fingers over the object well enough to stop it falling straight to the floor. Then the grip on him let go, dropping him onto the concrete floor. He collapsed when his right arm failed to hold him up, and he tucked his arms against his stomach, curled over them with his forehead pressed to the ground, gagging back his whimpers.  
  
He was aware of the eyes on him, watching him, waiting for him. He lifted his head slightly, moving to one side so the bag wasn’t pressed right up against his mouth. It took another few moments to register the item he was holding; he fumbled with the plastic coated handles, tentatively feeling out the shape of the heavy, flat-nosed pliers.  
  
‘ Use ‘em on one of your fingers,’ the woman said, directly behind him. Her voice was mild, interested in an academic sort of way. ‘Break it. Properly.’  
  
There was a sound, indistinct. Was it Noct? Ignis flexed the handle of the pliers, feeling the jaws move. They were spring loaded, which was good, he supposed distantly, unwillingly, because he didn’t think he had the dexterity yet to open as well as close them. His fingers were shaking, throbbing with pain from the sudden blood flow. He wished they were still numb.   
  
He swallowed, tried to catch his breath enough to speak. ‘Which — which finger?’  
  
The woman laughed, and several others around the room joined her. ‘You decide,’ she said, a nasty tone creeping in to the words. She put a hand on Ignis’ shoulder, hauled him back until he was sitting upright.  
  
The heat and moisture of his breath was leaving his face damp. He tried to focus on his breathing, but it didn’t do anything other than remind him how close and suffocating the bag was.  
  
His hand was shaking as he raised the pliers, fit the little finger of his left hand into the jaws. He shuffled it until it rested over the joint closest to the fingernail, then hesitated, and moved it down to the larger joint. He needed to do it properly, she’d said; he would do it properly.  
  
A soft sound, a wet little moan: Noct.  
  
With every minute he was holding their attention he was holding it away from Noct. With every passing minute they were a minute closer to being rescued. His hands were shaking, still half numb and swollen from being tied, aching, pain running through them, pins and needles and anticipation. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He squeezed the plier handles and felt, through them, his bones shift under the pressure.  
  
Could he do it? He could. For Noct.  
  
His breath was coming in gasps, suffocating him in wet heat inside the bag.  
  
He squeezed the plier handles, hard as he could. The small bones of his finger broke under the jaws, splintering with a wet sound like snapping twigs. The pliers fell from his hand, knocking into his legs on their way to the floor, making him flinch from them. The scream twisted in his throat; Ignis bit down on it, clenching his jaw shut, grinding his teeth to force it into a single sob, which turned into a retch and then more sobs, gasping for breath. He clutched his left hand in his right, digging his fingers into his palm, pushing them against his stomach and bending over them, as if he could protect them from the pain like knives in his hand. His fingers twitched, including the broken one, trying to curl into a fist. He could feel the throbbing beat of his pulse, feel how the shattered bone was piercing into his flesh, digging deeper each time his finger tried to move.  
  
‘ Okay,’ the woman said, and pulled him up again. ‘Another one.’  
  
Another? Ignis couldn’t help but fight her hand, her fingers digging in hard, struggling before catching himself and sitting still. Fear and pain and sick horror coated the inside of his skull. Of course. Why’d they be satisfied with just one broken finger? And it could be hours before they were rescued. Days. He’d offered anything, and one broken finger was negligible in the face of that. He’d have to do more. He’d been stupid to be think it’d be only one finger. Only — he didn’t want to hurt more. He wanted to throw up. He was trembling, hard. It had sounded so easy to say it, in theory, but actually doing it—  
  
He reached down, feeling the floor for the pliers. The bag was wet with the condensation of his breath, sticking to his skin, his open lips. He couldn’t find the pliers. His hand shook, enough that he was as much patting the floor as sweeping his fingers across it. When he found the pliers he flinched back from them as if they’d burnt him.  
  
Another broken finger. He could do that. (But after that, what then? Every finger until his hands were broken and useless? What then? Cut out his eyes, pull out his teeth? Snap the bones of his feet? Cut himself open, tear out his kidneys, the soft, red slipperiness of his liver? Could he do that?)  
  
Pushing the jaws of the pliers onto his left ring finger nudged his broken little finger — the sharp agony scraped up through his hand, into his arm — and without meaning to Ignis jerked the pliers away. He was panting through gritted teeth. He’d started moaning without realising it, and couldn’t make himself stop. He’d do this. He could. For Noct. To keep them distracted until they were rescued.  
  
He dragged the pliers’ jaws back up his ring finger, fumbling to get it over the joint. Then he squeezed the handle.  
  
The pain made his hand jerk, and the jaws, still clutching his broken finger, tore sideways. The agony was immediate, burning, making him scream for a single, choked-off breath. Beneath the agony, barely there, he could feel wetness and heat. The motion had ripped off the skin of his knuckle, spilling blood over his hands as he clutched them against his lap.  
  
His heartbeat roared in his ears. It was all he could do to keep swallowing down the crawling urge to vomit, cry, shake until he fell apart.  
  
He didn’t want to keep hurting himself. The thought of having to break a third finger made his eyes sting with tears, growing and growing until he was sobbing with fright at just the thought of it. He was blinded, in pain; he wanted Noct, wanted him safe and warm and in his arms, the two of them tucked away together. He didn’t want people standing over him, watching him, wanting him hurt more and more and more.  
  
The sound of a scuffle, on the other side of the room — the sound of impact on flesh. A gagged cry.  
  
Ignis shifted onto his knees, toppling sideways and catching himself with his right hand, only barely. ‘Don’t hurt him!’ His voice choked itself, forced through his sobs. ‘Please! Stop, please—’  
  
Hands on his head and shoulders, dragging him away, throwing him down onto his back. ‘Relax, kid,’ said the woman.  
  
‘ No!’ He could feel hysteria rattling inside him, like a bird trapped in his ribs, beating to get out. Twisting, he fought the hands, tried to roll away, get off his back. ‘I said I’d do what you want!’  
  
The hands left a second before the impact of something landed on his chest, pinning him down, squeezing the air from his lungs. He grasped at the thing — a boot, someone’s foot stamped down on his sternum, crushing him to the ground. The pressure against his broken fingers as he used them to claw at the person’s leg made him light-headed with pain; he tucked his left hand under his chin, shoving uselessly at the leg with his right. The person ground down a little harder, making his wheeze and moan as his ribs bent under the weight.  
  
‘ Your prince is fine,’ the woman said, closer to his head than he’d expected; Ignis flinched away from her, as much as he could. ‘It’s you I’d worry about.’  
  
‘ Noct,’ Ignis wheezed, without meaning to, not knowing what he was trying to say. He could barely breathe. His head was spinning, wildly drunk or feverish. He clawed at the bag with his left hand, tucking his broken fingers away as best he could, but it was tied around his neck and he couldn’t find the knot and couldn’t tug it over his chin without strangling himself. He kicked, but he couldn’t find the strength to buck the weight of the person off his chest, and the rope around his ankles sawed into his skin deeper and deeper.  
  
No one stopped him struggling. He couldn’t see Noct, couldn’t hear him. He needed to, but he couldn’t even gather enough breath to gasp out his name. The boot dug harder into his chest. His right hand couldn’t do much more than paw at it; his legs felt like they were made of sandbags, sodden and useless. His left hand was still tugging at the bag over his head, clawing weakly at the fabric damp with his panicky breath and spotted with blood.  
  
His head spun, harder and harder. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fight, too weak, too useless. His heart beat deafeningly loud. It occurred to him that even without the bag he wouldn’t be able to see; his eyes were open but it wasn’t to the the brown fabric covering his face, only blotchy blackness. His chest hurt; his lungs hurt. His whole body hurt, but he couldn’t do anything about it, no matter how much he tried. The bag had flattened over his face, pressing down on his eyes and nose and covering his open mouth. Couldn’t breathe.  
  
The boot lifted from his chest. Ignis curled over and retched, gagging and choking as he sucked in air too quick but unable to stop. His throat and lungs and chest were alight with pain. His left hand burnt in agony, like boiling oil, like knives, as he jarred it against the floor, and he sobbed as he curled over it. But he still couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t find enough air, and what air there was was thin, not enough to calm the scream in his brain that told him he was still suffocating.   
  
Then he remembered what he’d forgotten. ‘Noct,’ he said, barely a whispered croak, like pushing gravel up and out of his throat. ‘Noct?’ He couldn’t manage to get up; he was trembling, shaking too hard to even start to move. The bag was wet over his eyes, smothering his face, scratching his skin. ‘Please, Noct—’  
  
A blow to his face, hitting him on the cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose. Pain like sparks across his eyes, his head knocked to the side, smashed down against the floor. The world went muffled, pain clouding everything else out. ‘Shut up,’ the woman said, her tone offhand.  
  
‘ Gods,’ another woman said, from across the room. ‘They really fuck up the kids here, don’t they?’  
  
A man said something, but Ignis didn’t hear the words. His own breathing was too loud, too fast. He felt sick. He really needed to not throw up inside the bag, he told himself, distantly, but he wasn’t sure he could manage that.  
  
How long until they were rescued? How long had they been here for? He didn’t know. He couldn’t think. His throat was closing up, his breath speeding up as he struggled to suck in enough air. Where was Noct? He was tugging at the bag again. Not enough air. Too hot, too close, too wet with humidity. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe—  
  
‘ Get the bag off,’ someone was saying. More words, but he couldn’t hear them.  
  
Hands at the back of his neck, pulling at the bag, and he tried to fight them but couldn’t. Then the bag disappeared, yanked up over his head, and Ignis gasped and sobbed for air, eyes squeezed shut against the harsh light.  
  
They gave him time to recover, curled up on the floor, retching, humiliated and frightened, dizzy with the sudden ability to breathe. He was exhausted. He hurt. The air was cold on his face, enough to sting. After a minute he remembered that it was time he wanted, all their eyes on him and not Noct, so he might as well try to drag it out. He could feel them watching him, as he lay on the floor and panted, swallowing and gagging, choking on his own saliva. His body twitched, spine spasming without apparent cause, and he didn’t think he could stop it if he wanted to. His eyes were still wet with tears, but moving to wipe his face seemed entirely impossible: to drag his hand all the way to his face, to move, to do anything but lie there.  
  
He wanted to open his eyes to look for Noct, but he didn’t dare, in case it brought their attention back to Noct. He could hear, and he knew they weren’t doing anything to him. He couldn’t hear Noct. That was good, surely? It meant Noct wasn’t in pain. Didn’t it?  
  
He couldn’t drag it out forever. After all, he needed to keep their attention. He couldn’t do that by doing nothing.  
  
Rolling over onto his back, whole body aching like he’d been beaten, the sharper pain in his hand sparking back to life, Ignis opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at Noct, instinctive, already done by the time he knew he ought not, too bone-tired to do anything but feel like a failure afterwards.  
  
Noct was sitting up against the far wall, gagged and tied with his hands behind his back, legs tucked under him. His face was white and blotchy red, and he’d been crying — was still crying — but at least he didn’t look hurt.  
  
Ignis thought to offer him something: a smile, or a word of comfort, but nothing came. Noct kept staring at him through wide, wet, frightened eyes. It was impossible to look away.  
  
A motion in the corner of his eye — Noct broke eye contact, and Ignis turned to look just in time to see something being dropped in front of him. A small plastic bag, the size of his palm, containing a half-dozen or so nails.  
  
Ignis breathed out once, shaky, and pushed himself into sitting. His whole body felt weak, bones like dried out sponge cake, brain lagging a second behind everything else. The woman — he assumed it was the woman who’d been giving him the orders — stood by his side and nudged the bag closer with the toe of her boot. She had a small face planted in the middle of her head, like her skull had carried on growing after her face had stopped. Her body was rail-thin. ‘Take them,’ she said — and it was the same woman as who’d been giving him orders earlier. Her voice was like the tip of a knife touching his back. Ignis looked down and took the bag of nails in his hand, feeling the sharp ends poke through the thin plastic. Each nail was an inch long, shiny and new.  
  
‘ You got half an hour,’ the woman said, leaning back against the wall, crossing her legs at the ankle. ‘Stick ‘em all in you. Don’t care where.’  
  
On the other side of the room, Noct made a sound. Ignis didn’t look up from the bag. His breath out shuddered. Then he nodded, jerkily.  
  
Half an hour of bought time. That was — how much time was that? He knew he’d been told, at some point, the average time it took to locate hostage victims and rescue them. He couldn’t remember if it had been hours or days. If hours, then half an hour was valuable. If days—  
  
He tore open the bag one-handed, fingers stretching and tearing the plastic easily. He placed it and the nails on the floor. Eight nails, he counted, then counted again. That was a little under four minutes per nail. But maybe they wouldn’t be so strict on the time. Or maybe they would.  
  
Ignis picked up a nail by its flattened head and pressed it lightly into his waist, on the far left, angled down towards his hip. He wouldn’t hit any arteries there, and at that angle, down and close to the skin, he ought to miss his small intestine. After a moment he paused, put the nail down, and unbuttoned his shirt. A thin layer of fabric probably wouldn’t change much, but if he wanted to do this he ought to make sure he did it right first time.  
  
How long had it taken him to do that? A minute? Two minutes? And presumably he’d get slower with each extra nail, and he was wasting even more time deliberating and not doing anything, but he couldn’t make his hand move to pick the nail back up again. Half of him desperately wanted to look at Noct; the other half wanted him to slam his eyes shut.  
  
It had definitely been more than two minutes, now. Three, maybe even four. And he still hadn’t even started. His hands were sweating. He picked up the nail, pinching the head between his fingertips, and put it back on his waist.  
  
Was this really the best place to put it? What if he did puncture his intestines? But where else? He probably shouldn’t put it in his arms, because he’d need those, and likewise his legs, if he needed to run. Except his outer thighs — there weren’t any arteries there, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t also need his core muscles to run.  
  
His hand jerked, shoved down, broke the skin and pushed the nail half-way in. Then it spasmed, pulling away. His eyes slammed shut; he could feel blood run down his side, feel pain reaching into him. He could hear his own breathing, and other people breathing, and the gentle shift of fabric as someone moved. It hurt with every tiny shift as he breathed and trembled. It hurt. It hurt so bad.  
  
He found the nail again, sticking out of him like a flagpole, shifting as his side shifted with each trembling breath. His fingers danced over it, not wanting to touch it, put pressure onto it, until they did, and it sunk into him as he pushed it, bit by bit, until the head was flush with his skin. He was heaving in each breath like he’d sprinted far past his limit. He could feel it inside him, pulling at his flesh. Blood soaked into his trousers, hot and wet and sticky.  
  
‘ All the way in,’ the woman said, and Ignis twitched to obey, shoving the flat head of the nail in past his skin, grinding it in with his fingertip pressed into the hole it left behind.  
  
One in. Seven left. How long had that taken? Far too long. His hands felt numb. He could feel the nail shift inside him with every breath. Ten minutes? That left only twenty for the remaining seven.  
  
He couldn’t do it. He had to. Maybe if he begged for extra time. Or maybe he could do it.  
  
Ignis picked up the second nail. Eight nails. Four places on each side of his body. Two on his waist, two on his thighs? But there wasn’t time to deliberate. Not any more.  
  
The second nail went in above his hip bone, angled down to scrape behind it. It sunk into his body, pain like knives scoring lines into his hip bones, like boiling oil being poured into him. Ignis sobbed open-mouthed, eyes squeezed shut tight as they could go. Half in. Only half the nail to go. Half an inch wasn’t so bad. He pressed it in, puncturing deeper, pushing it into the muscle and meat of his body until the head popped in past his skin, and he let go.  
  
His fingers were wet with blood, cold and tacky. He’d lost track of the time. He still had six more nails to go. With every tiny motion, every rise and fall of his chest as he panted for air, the nails shifted inside him, burying in deeper, tearing his insides that much more.  
  
Six more. That was two in his left thigh and four on his right side. He was shaking, hard enough he fumbled with the third nail, and every violent tremor shot hot, sharp agony through his side. His throat bobbed as he swallowed back a hiccup, his throat and stomach clenching hard.  
  
Which next; his thigh, or side? He — he couldn’t decide. His hand hovered uselessly over his lap and he couldn’t make it go anywhere. He didn’t want it to go anywhere.  
  
‘ Got five minutes,’ the woman said, and Ignis couldn’t even react beyond squeezing his eyes shut. He’d failed. He could never do this in five minutes.  
  
‘ What — what happens if I run out of time?’  
  
The woman made a sound, sucking her teeth. ‘Give the rest to the prince,’ she said, eventually. ‘Make him do ‘em to himself.’  
  
For a split second, dizzying in its revelation, Ignis realised he wanted to stop. He wanted to let someone else hurt.  
  
Then, sick with the rush of guilt and horror and shame, he shoved the nail into his side — his right side again, with the other two, and his fingers slipping with the blood and pain, but he forced it deep in. It ground inside him and blood squirted out of the hole it left. He couldn’t let them hurt Noct. He couldn’t. Whatever he did, he couldn’t let that happen.  
  
He picked up two nails, though only one punctured the skin as he pressed them into his left side. The other was at the wrong angle, scraping and falling to the floor instead. He bit his lip, teeth sinking into the flesh, puncturing the skin. He’d do it. He could. He’d save Noct from it.  
  
His clothes were wet with blood, his hands soaked in it. Ignis couldn’t help but curl over, a raw, animal noise pushing itself from his mouth, and that hurt too. He hurt. It hurt but he had to do it.  
  
The fifth nail went in on his left side again, slipping into his muscles, fingers feeling the drag and give as it broke its way in. He had to search for the sixth with his hands, because he couldn’t quite manage to open his eyes, and pressed it in in the same hole as the fifth. It bumped and ground against the fifth, and Ignis turned it so it was angled away, and sobbed and moaned as it tore into him.  
  
Two more. Two more. He’d meant to put them in his thighs but he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. He pressed the seventh in around his back, pushing it so it went in parallel to his skin and wouldn’t puncture his liver or kidneys or any major blood vessels. There was still the head poking outside his skin, like a maggot trying to emerge, when the woman said: ‘Time’s up.’  
  
Ignis flinched, lost the nail, and when he found it again it had pushed itself out most of the way. He covered it with his hand and forced himself to look up, open his eyes.  
  
‘ No,’ he said, a rasp. ‘No, please. Two more minutes. Please. I can — give me two more minutes. One minute, please—’  
  
He couldn’t sustain his voice; it died into a choked retch, gagging as he shoved the seventh nail back in, all the way this time.  
  
‘ One minute,’ the woman said. ‘And you got to do something extra.’  
  
‘ Yes,’ Ignis said, though his throat clenched, and for a terrible moment he’d been convinced he would say  _ no. _   
  
The eight nail pushed in below the seventh, making him gasp and gag — and then it was in, and his whole body burnt with pain, but at least it was done. At least he hadn’t let Noct suffer for his incompetence.  
  
And maybe soon they’d be rescued.  
  
Now he was listening he could hear Noct crying, muffled, behind his gag. Every tiny motion — breathing, trembling, shifting to find a less painful position that did not exist — shot agony through him. His sides and legs were wet with blood; blood was smeared on the ground from his hands and as he’d moved his legs. Blood pooled where his soggy trousers met the floor. He was at once too hot and trembling with cold; he wanted to curl into himself, hide his face in his arms, tuck himself into as small a target as possible, but it hurt too much to move.  
  
When would they be rescued? He couldn’t do this. He’d have to, for Noct, but he didn’t think he could do this for much longer. He didn’t want to.  
  
Ignis’ head span, body shaking, and he listened to the sound of clattering, rummaging through a drawer of small things, metal on metal. Then: ‘Shit,’ someone said, a man. ‘You’ve proved your point. Come on.’  
  
‘ Fuck off,’ the woman said. Her feet in front of Ignis made him look up, slowly, craning his neck. He flinched back as she dropped two items to the ground in front of him — a lighter, and a steak knife — then flinched again as the first motion yanked on the nails and torn the flesh inside him.  
  
‘ Don’t want you bleeding to death,’ the woman said, sneer in her tone — and something else, too, that Ignis couldn’t place. It sounded a little like satisfaction. ‘Better burn those shut.’  
  
She had a point, Ignis supposed, as he reached slowly for the lighter, in his left hand, and the knife in his right. His fingers struggled to close around either. If the rescue wasn’t going to be for a while then he might well be at risk of serious blood loss. Cauterisation would make the surgery to remove the nails more difficult, and lead to a considerably greater risk of infection, but in the short term it might well be a benefit. Infection could be cured. Rapid blood loss leading to death could not.  
  
His head spun. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He didn’t want to cauterise his own wounds. But he had to.  
  
He had to. He had to. He couldn’t make his hands move. And the woman hadn’t given him a deadline for this, he realised. He could draw it out, buy time.   
  
He didn’t want to draw it out. He wanted to not be in pain.  
  
His hands were shaking as he held the lighter and flicked it on. His broken fingers pulsed in agony, made gripping the lighter like grasping a knife blade. It took a few goes, then he couldn’t seem to hold the knife still enough over the flame. He could feel it heat his fingers, burning his thumb. How hot did it have to be?  
  
The thin, cheap metal of the knife was glowing a dim red. Hot enough? He ought to know. He couldn’t think. Maybe a little more.  
  
Control his breathing. It would be fine. It was just pain. It would scar, but it wouldn’t do any permanent damage. Wouldn’t even scar if he was given curatives soon enough. They’d be rescued — possibly very shortly — and then things could go back to normal. He could tell everyone was looking at him. Him, and not Noct.  
  
The knife was glowing white. He had to put the lighter down and wipe away the blood so he could see where the first puncture hole was. He pinched the hole shut, feeling the head of the nail just inside, a solidness under the skin that shifted under his fingertips and dug in a little deeper. He pressed the knife flat on the wound.  
  
He screamed, and his hand jerked back, dropping the knife. It clattered to the floor and skidded to the other side of the room.   
  
The agony swelled in him. His hands clawed at the floor — both hands, broken fingers pushed out of shape against the concrete. He gagged, retching. Someone kicked the knife back at him.  
  
‘ Keep going,’ the woman said. He barely heard her. His hands shook so hard he could barely grasp the knife and lighter, let alone lift them. Couldn’t flick on the lighter, hold the knife where it needed to be. But he had to.  
  
At the third puncture wound he threw up, bile and phlegm for lack of anything else in his stomach. The fourth he blacked out, and woke to someone’s boot grinding into his stomach.  
  
His throat was raw from screaming; he could barely see, barely think, barely move his hands. People were shouting at him, ordering him. He knew he had to follow their orders. He found the fifth wound by touch, because he couldn’t see it any more.  
  
He couldn’t feel anything other than pain — not the floor under him, the knife in his hands, the heat from the lighter. His heart raced in his chest, in his throat, weak and thready. His breath rasped from his lungs, out his mouth, and scraped its way back in again, and he couldn’t hear anything but that. He had to brace himself with the heels of his palms on the floor, press the knife against the lighter just to get it to stay there and not fall away from the force of his shaking. He could barely see, only just make out the brightness of the flame.  
  
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t manage the next one — didn’t even know which one it was, where it was; he’d lost count of how many he’d burnt shut, how many he had left to do. He couldn’t locate the wounds in the agony overflowing from his body. His fingertips were numb, useless, unable to find the holes in his expanse of his own skin.  
  
He couldn’t heat the knife. Couldn’t press it into himself. He was swaying, and it hurt, but he couldn’t stop.  
  
The knife and lighter fell from his nerveless hands. He couldn’t — he had to, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Maybe he’d regret it later, but—  
  
Noct. He still had to do this for Noct. Someone was still coming to rescue them. Rescue Noct.  
  
He reached out for the knife, the lighter, but he couldn’t find them. His hands scraped then fell still on the floor; he couldn’t see. He couldn’t move except the uneven heaving of his body sucking in breath after breath. Something pushed him to one side, and he fell, boneless. It hurt, but then everything hurt, and he thought he made a sound, keening, but he couldn’t hear anything.  
  
He passed out, and didn’t wake up when kicked.  
  
He was still unconscious when the Kingsglaive knocked down the door; he didn’t feel the hands on him, or hear Noct’s voice, raw and desperate and terrified, calling his name.


	2. Chapter 2

He tried to be brave.  
  
He tried hard — really hard — because being brave and calm would help Ignis, especially if they had the chance to escape. And with being tied up, no access to the armiger or his magic, told that if he caused trouble they'd be taking it out of Ignis' skin — since Ignis wasn't who they needed alive — it wasn't like he could do much else.  
  
So: he tried to be brave. He let them gag him, tie him up; he stopped fighting, attempting to be the kind of dignified he knew his dad would be in this scenario, or Gladio, or, fuck, Ignis. He tried not to let being cut off from the Crystal and his dad's magic bother him, the absence of something he'd got so used to he didn't feel it until it was gone.  
  
He tried. He tried really fucking hard, only he couldn't do it. Not after they got out the pliers, and he heard the sound of Ignis' bones breaking. Then he thought, as he started to cry, pathetic and helpless, that wouldn't it be fucking awful and hilarious if he managed to choke to death on his own snot and tears behind the gag. They'd have to invent a better story for the press, and thinking about that managed to distract him for a bit. Because he had to be calm; he had to sit still and trust Ignis. Ignis knew what he was doing. And broken bones hurt a lot but they could be healed pretty easy. He knew that — he'd broken fingers a couple of times in training. He and Ignis were going to be rescued, and Ignis was going to distract the bad guys until then. He'd protect Noctis. Because even if it wasn't his job, like it was Gladio's, that was still what Ignis did.  
  
But having to watch it — having to sit and listen to the bones cracking — he couldn't, and Ignis wouldn't have sat back and let them do it if their roles were reversed, and it didn't matter that he couldn't actually do anything so long as he tried.  
  
So they tied him up properly, ankles to wrists, rope attached to some kind of ring set into the floor behind him.  
  
And then it got worse, and worse, and worse.  
  
Then it stopped being frightening and started being unbearable, terrifying, the worst of his nightmares when he was back with the marilith tearing everyone around him apart, tearing _him_ apart. Something had gone wrong; Ignis had just meant to be buying time, distracting them. He couldn't have meant to — to torture himself. Not torture himself _to death_ , because that's what he was doing, and Noct couldn't struggle free, couldn't access the armiger, couldn't do anything at all to stop it. There was too much blood, smeared all over the floor and Ignis' body, and Noct could smell it, sticking to the lining of his throat, like he were eight years old again with his spine broken and the feeling of blood and dying crawling over his body like ants — he could feel it all over himself now even when he knew it wasn't on him but Ignis, who was bleeding and gasping and biting back his wet, broken moans and whimpers.  
  
Noctis closed his eyes, would have put his hands over his ears if they weren't tied behind his back.  
  
He hadn't thought they'd meant to kill Ignis, only hurt him. He thought they'd be rescued in time. He knew they were in danger but he hadn't thought — hadn't realised he'd have to sit and listen, to know Ignis was killing himself on the other side of the room. It wasn't — Noctis just wanted it to stop already, the Glaive to rescue them, to wake up and realise it was another shitty, shitty dream — but nothing was happening except Ignis carrying on killing himself. There was too much blood and Ignis wasn't stopping, wasn't even trying to stem the flow splattering out of him, splurts that hit the floor a foot away from where he was sitting. He was carrying on, and even though Noctis had his eyes closed he couldn't stop himself taking peeks, because what if Ignis died while Noctis wasn't looking? What if Ignis wanted to catch Noctis' eye before he died and couldn't because Noctis was that much of a giant fucking coward he couldn't even open his eyes to be there for him in the stupidest, weakest way possible?  
  
There was blood, way too much blood, puddles and smears of it all over the floor, and Ignis' face was grey and sheened in sweat. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. He was shaking. He was dying and in pain and Noctis couldn't do anything but squirm pathetically and cry all over his gag.  
  
Some fucking prince he was. Some friend.  
  
Then they made Ignis burn himself, and Noctis could smell charring meat and hear Ignis sobbing, making noises like a dying animal, like it wasn't even Ignis in there, not even a person. He couldn't do this — he wanted to die and he wasn't even the one being hurt, but he couldn't stand it. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, collapse in on himself, stop existing altogether. He couldn't do it. He was sweating, cold, trembling hard. His heart was racing and it make him sick, made vomit swell in his throat. He couldn't look any more — the last time he did he threw up and only just managed to swallow it back down without choking himself, burning out of his nose to dribble down his chin — but he couldn't not imagine it. Couldn't not smell it and hear it and gods this was his fault and he wanted to die, he just wanted to die, he couldn't do this—  
  
He felt himself flinch hard as the door burst off its hinges, but even then it took a few seconds to actually realise what was happening. By the time he'd uncurled and opened his eyes the room was clear of anyone but him and four kingsglaive, their kidnappers all dragged out into the hallway, and Ignis — Ignis' body — Noctis sat still long enough for the twine around his wrists and ankles to be cut, the gag's strap around the back of his head to be undone, but he had his hands on the gag and he tore it out of his mouth himself, hard enough it caught on his teeth and yanked them painfully. The straps stuck to his skin, pulled out hairs on the back of his head; he barely noticed as he crawled across the floor, scrambling up only to fall back down because his legs had both gone numb. 'Ignis,' he was saying, over and over, and he wanted to shove away the two glaive kneeling next to Ignis, where he was lying on the floor, trousers soaked, black fabric shiny with blood, pasty skin slick with blood, and was he even breathing? Was he alive? Gods, he had to be, he had to, there was no way he could die, he was _Ignis—_  
  
'Your Highness, please,' one of the glaive said, and Noctis knew her and knew that he knew her, but right now everything was twisted up in his head and he needed to see Ignis, needed to know he was still alive, and she was in his way.  
  
'I'm _fine,_ ' he said, the words rasping out on breath that was starting to hiccup. He could see around her to Ignis, as he lay there, and the glaive kneeling beside him to check his breathing and heartbeat.   
  
'They didn't — they didn't even touch me,' Noctis said, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve, wiping away the vomit. He still had to let them inspect him, run their hands down his body to check for injuries, but it wasn't as if he could have gone anywhere anyway because all he could see was Ignis' body, red streaked and limp and sodden, and suddenly he didn't have the ability to move any more. Because Ignis wasn't moving. He'd been laid out on the floor, they weren't checking his heart or breathing or anything any more, and he still wasn't moving. The ground tilted away under Noctis' hands and knees, and his heart squeezed and squeezed until he thought it might as well just give up. Ignis couldn't — he couldn't—  
  
It was like the whole world drained away and got replaced with something awful and cold and painful and he was sobbing. He couldn't stop himself shoving forwards, and there was a glaive's hands on his shoulders trying gently to tug him away and he was fighting back because he needed to be by Ignis' side (not that it mattered because Ignis was dead and Ignis was gone and he was never going to tut at Noctis or smile at him in that way Ignis did, with his lips quirking up just at the corners, or sneak him out of the Citadel at night when no one else even knew he felt bad, because he was dead and he was dead and it was because of him, his fault—).  
  
Which was when he realised they had an elixir and they were about to give it to Ignis. Which meant he had to be alive.  
  
Hope flared in him, wild and terrifying, because what if they were wrong? But he pushed past the glaive and up onto his knees beside Ignis, and he was still crying too hard to even speak but someone said: 'He's alive, don't worry, Your Highness, he'll pull through.' — and it was like a star bursting to life in his chest, a million, million tonnes of light and energy because _Ignis was still alive and he was going to be okay._  
  
'He's got,' Noctis managed, barely, through his running nose and the way he couldn't breathe properly, sobs tearing up his lungs. But this was important. 'They — there's nails in him. In the wounds.' Because one of the first lessons he got drilled into him in healing magic was when not to use it, and how important it was that whoever was doing the healing knew as much as possible.  
  
All four glaive paused, but only for a second. The elixir washed over Ignis, and the little wounds on his sides closed over, burnt black skin turning normal again, mending like those videos of things breaking played in reverse. 'It's most important we stop the bleeding,' the glaive — Otaria said, and that was right, her name was Otaria. 'He'll be going straight to the hospital where they can operate and remove any shrapnel.'  
  
Which made sense, but thinking of those nails tucked inside Ignis' body, the skin grown over the top of them, made Noctis feel sick. More sick than before. His stomach clenched; he swallowed, hard, and gulped to try soften the sobs that were still spilling up and out of his lungs, making his chest hurt. He wanted to ask if he could touch Ignis, and was interrupted by the sight of Ignis stirring.  
  
He lurched forwards, stopped by Otaria's hands on his upper arms, her body blocking his way. 'One moment,' she said, and Noctis hated her, because Ignis was twisting, eyes blinking open, squinting to search the room. He was gasping out Noctis' name.  
  
'Ignis,' another of the glaive said, kneeling by his side. 'Good to see you back with us. I'm Sota — I don't think we've met, but I've seen you around! You train with the polearm, don't you? His Highness is right over there, unharmed; you just lie here and we'll have you on your way to the hospital in no time. Try not to move, that's it.'  
  
Ignis didn't even seem to hear her. He twisted, and gasped, and Noctis wasn't even sure if it was in pain or trying to escape or speak. Ignis' hands moved to his sides, and Sota grabbed him by the wrists. 'Ignis,' she said, firmer this time. 'Ignis, can you hear me? I'm Sota from the Kingsglaive; hold still while we wait for the ambulance to get you to the hospital.'  
  
Ignis shook his head, arching his back, breath starting to come panicky-fast. He was trying to tug his hands from Sota, but it was obvious he was too weak to do anything but struggle in her grip. Sota swore in Galahadrian.  
  
'No,' Ignis said, and choked on the word, coughing. Noctis thought of the nails still inside him and didn't resist as he was pushed back to sit on the sticky floor.  
  
'No,' Ignis said again, whimpering, but he'd stopped trying to free himself. 'Please, don't—'  
  
'Ignis, you're safe,' Sota said. 'Prince Noctis is safe. We're going to get you to the hospital.'  
  
There was a bruise spreading across Ignis' waist, creeping slowly under his skin like wine soaking through a tablecloth. 'No. I can — I can still—'  
  
He broke off to pant, biting down whimpers, and that was when the paramedics arrived. They were talking to the glaives who'd been outside the room, and were firing off words at them and each other that were too hard, too quick for Noctis to catch. He pushed himself to his feet, head spinning, and grabbed hold of Sota's arm.  
  
'I'm going with him,' he said, and managed to be authoritative until his voice broke in the middle of the sentence. He looked down at Ignis, being lifted onto a stretcher. 'I'm going with him,' he said again, even worse than the first time.  
  
Ignis didn't seem to recognise him when their eyes met, but that didn't matter. The thought of him being wheeled away, out of sight, the paramedics doing fuck knows what with him — Noctis felt like he'd shatter at just the thought of it. He needed to be there. Needed to see him.  
  
'You'll have to ask the paramedics,' Sota said. 'You'll need a checkup anyway, so if not we'll drive you straight there after him.'  
  
'No, I'm going with him,' Noctis said. 'In the ambulance.' His voice creaked with the last word. He only barely managed to hold back adding _please_.  
  
'D'you want me to talk to them?' Sota asked, and the kindness and sudden understanding made Noctis want to curl up on the floor and cry. He nodded instead, a small, jerky movement, and broke away from her to follow the stretcher as they wheeled Ignis out of the room.  
  
He didn't catch whether Sota managed to speak to the paramedics, and what answer she got, but when he clambered into the back of the ambulance behind Ignis, sitting down on the thin bench to the side, no one bothered him except to tell him to strap in. Noctis fumbled with the seatbelt and managed to clip it in. His hands were clumsy. The process of clipping in a seatbelt seemed more complex than it ought to be, or had been even a few hours ago. They were all talking, the paramedics, quick and calm like Ignis wasn't gasping and shuddering, trying to fight the straps that tied him to the stretcher. Noctis couldn't figure out what they were saying. The words slid off him like oil on water, like they were talking in a language he didn't know.  
  
He wanted to reach out, reassure Ignis, but he was at Ignis' feet and there was someone in the way from reaching over to touch even his thigh or hip. They were sticking the pads of a machine Noctis distantly registered as a heart monitor to Ignis' bare chest. Noctis watched, thinking that they must have, at some point, cleaned away the blood, but he couldn't say when. Both sides of Ignis' waist were both blotchy purple, dark, two of the worst bruises Noctis had ever seen — and he'd seen a fuck ton of bad ones — only they were both massive, too, almost touching each other over his stomach, curling down underneath him. Noctis only managed to look away when they covered Ignis up with a thin blanket, tucking it around him. The siren started; the ambulance rolled forwards, and a woman sat next to him, strapping herself down effortlessly.  
  
'Don't worry, Your Highness,' she said, with the briskness of someone who dealt with emergencies twice daily. 'He'll be right as rain. Now, let me have a look at you.'  
  
It took a second to even understand what she wanted. Noctis just blinked at her, then nodded as she reached out to take his hands. He looked down, and realised she was examining the redness of his wrists where the rope had cut into him. There were thin lines of bruising, swollen and red, and some of the skin was torn a little. It was barely bleeding.  
  
'Are you in any pain? Did they tie you anywhere else?'  
  
'No. Uh, and my ankles, but.' Noctis bent his legs, lifting them so he could rest his heel on the seat and let the woman roll up his trouser leg and examine the bruises without having to get up. 'That's all. They really didn't touch me.'  
  
The ambulance turned, jerking Noctis to one side. His throat clenched, stomach bucking. Then the ambulance turned again and he had to swallow as he retched, vomit burning up his throat, the taste of it creeping into the back of his mouth.  
  
It was fine. They were taking Ignis to the hospital. They were going to treat him. He'd be better in no time. The heart monitor beeped, and beeped, and beeped. Had it got faster? All the beeping and the siren and the paramedics talking was too much. He couldn't take any of it in.  
  
'No.' Ignis' voice made Noctis' head snap up so fast a shiver of pain ran down his neck. 'Please,' Ignis said, tugging at his arms. His face was grey, sweat-sheened. His hair had fallen out of its styling and was sticking to his skin in clumps. He was panting open-mouthed, lips wet with red-streaked saliva, shallow gasping that made his shoulders hitch and shudder. His eyes were unfocused, searching for something in the faces of the paramedics surrounding him, his own face scrunched up in pain.  
  
'Please,' Ignis said, thick and breathless. 'Don't hurt him, I can still — I can still do it, please—'  
  
He only stopped because he started to gag, whimpering around the wet, gasping heaves, and it took a moment to realise what he meant even though Noctis kinda already knew Ignis didn't get what was going on. Ignis still thought they were back with their kidnappers. He still thought he had to torture himself, just to keep Noctis safe.  
  
He was probably still in agony.  
  
The paramedics were talking again, quick and forced calm, and the woman beside Noctis was leaning forwards to say something to Ignis and hadn't that been the point of Noctis, shouldn't he be the one trying to comfort Ignis? Only he couldn't even move, barely even sit properly as he was jostled around in his seat, and his tongue was thick and useless like a giant slug in his mouth, and he wanted to be sick. He wanted to be curled up in bed. He wanted Ignis to be better. He wanted his dad.  
  
Maybe the glaive would tell his dad which hospital they'd gone to, and he'd be there. Probably not when they arrived, but soon after, maybe.  
  
' _Please,'_ Ignis said, and Noctis wanted him to just stop already.  
  
There was this feel of dread like a hand closing over his lungs — even though _his_ lungs were fine, it was Ignis who clearly couldn't breathe or something, he didn't know. But seeing Ignis strapped up, covered with that shitty-looking blanket, crying and panting and struggling and in pain, thinking they were still back in that room — maybe he shouldn't have gone in the ambulance. He was just taking up space. He didn't want to see Ignis like this any more, and knowing that made him feel like the smallest, shittiest person in the world.  
  
The woman sitting next to him handed him another blanket, and Noctis took it without thinking. He realised he was shaking, and tugged it over his shoulders.   
  
It was weirdly, deceptively warm. He pulled it closer around himself.  
  
'Can you drive smooth for a minute?'  
  
He didn't hear if the driver replied, but the urgent sway of the ambulance slowed, and Noctis wanted to shout at them but couldn't even open his mouth — they shouldn't be slowing down — they should be _going faster_ , what the _fuck—_  
  
They pulled back the blanket and slid an IV needle into Ignis' arm; Ignis didn't even seem to register it. The bag held clear liquid, but the writing on it was tiny, and Noctis couldn't read it. His eyes were stinging. He scrubbed at them. It was fine. Ignis would be fine. They'd been rescued, they were going to the hospital, and they'd operate on Ignis and even his fingers would heal fine and then they could just… move on. Go back to how it used to be. Noctis squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best to push away the waves everything awful rushing up to crush him down, swallow him whole.  
  
It was his fault. His fault and he didn't even want to look at Ignis. Didn't want to be around him unless he was better already, and what kind of person did that make him?  
  
The sound of crinkling made him open his eyes, and he saw them cover Ignis in a foil blanket, over the one he had already. He had a plastic mask over his face, too — an oxygen mask — and it distorted but didn't hide his open, bloodied mouth. But he wasn't trying to speak any more. He wasn't struggling, either.  
  
His eyes had closed. Even though Noctis could see him still breathing, could see the heart monitor and the single line pattern of Ignis' heartbeat, his insides lurched like he'd been dropped ten feet into cold water.  
  
The ambulance stopped. The woman beside Noctis was already up, opening the back doors, and Noctis sat still while they wheeled Ignis out. No one paid him any attention. He fumbled with his seatbelt, unclipping it even harder than doing it up, and stepped down the ramp into the ambulance parking bays.  
  
He could see the main entrance to the hospital, just down the road. He walked up to it and went in, ignoring how everyone was looking at him.  
  
'Oh—' A woman sidled up beside him, eyes wide, dressed in some kind of nurse's uniform. 'Ah, um—'  
  
She didn't know how to address him, Noctis thought dully. 'Please forgive the sudden appearance,' he said, words coming out clean and routine, though he knew he wasn't smiling when he ought to be. 'I was accompanying someone who was just taken into ER. Is there anywhere private I could wait?'  
  
'Of course! Just this way—' She hesitated only for a second before taking him through one of the staff doors, and Noctis followed numbly.  
  
'Some Kingsglaive will be here soon,' he said, as they walked. 'If they could be informed of my location, and brought to me if they ask, that would be ideal.'  
  
'Of course.'  
  
What would be ideal would be if Ignis wasn't hurt and they weren't in the hospital in the first place. 'Ignis Scientia,' Noctis said. 'That's — my retainer. Who was just brought in. If I could have… if you could inform me when he is out of surgery and taking visitors, I would be grateful.' Because he couldn't ask her to break patient confidentiality by demanding she tell him everything. Couldn't push and push and push until she gave in, like he did — like with Ignis.  
  
He was put in a private waiting room, and given water and offered coffee or any other drinks, or food, which he turned down. Then he was left alone. He stared at the floor. He didn't have his phone. He didn't have anything that wasn't the literal clothes on his back. He should have asked one of the glaive to lend him one of their phones, or he could ask to use a hospital one. But that would involve speaking to people.  
  
His hands were shaking, just a little. He clenched them tight, palm to palm, between his knees. When would the glaive arrive? Would they know where to go to find him?  
  
What if he just got caught again when there was no one here and he was defenseless, and Ignis not able to protect him?  
  
Where even was Ignis? What if he died? What if the surgery went wrong and—  
  
Footsteps, a knock on the door. 'Yes,' he said, and Sota came in.  
  
'Your Highness,' she said, and bowed. 'How are you holding up?'  
  
'I'm, uh,' Noctis said. 'Good.'  
  
Sota gave him a look that said she didn't believed him, but was at least going to humour him. 'I've asked a doctor to swing round,' she said, 'to give you another look over. Your father has been informed of the situation and is on his way here.'  
  
'Oh,' Noctis said. He didn't have anything else to say. His lungs didn't seem to have enough air. He squeezed his hands harder between his knees until they started to hurt.  
  
The doctor arrived first, and Noctis sat through round after round of questions, gentle poking and prodding, disinfectant and gauze on the scrapes around his wrists. Then the doctor left and he went to the bathroom to wash his face, and brush his teeth with a toothbrush Sota gave him, because he hadn't brushed his teeth since before being kidnapped — obviously, but still — and they said he could use the shower but he didn't want to risk being in there while his dad arrived, so he didn't. He slouched back down on the soft cushions on the couch and stared at the muted TV playing on the wall opposite.  
  
It was playing the news, but nothing about him being kidnapped. They'd managed to keep it hidden, then. That was — good, he guessed. Now he was safely back they could work out how to spin the story. And the kidnappers were dealt with and the glaive would find out who was behind it all in the first place, because they hadn't demanded information or ransom or anything. He supposed they would have been waiting to take him somewhere — and only him, because Ignis had been kidnapped only because he'd been with Noct, and was himself not necessary, expendable, and even just thinking that word made Noctis' stomach go cold and tight. They'd have taken him out of Insomnia, leaving Ignis' body behind. Hidden or destroyed. They'd been waiting for the right moment or for the pickup to arrive or _something,_ Noctis didn't know, and he needed to stop thinking about it because he could feel his hands practically vibrate even pinned down. Sota wasn't looking at him, but she had to be able to tell.   
  
He didn't want to break down in front of her and his dad. But the shaking wasn't going away. It was getting worse, and was Ignis doing okay? Were they cutting him open to tug out the nails right at that moment? Or setting his broken fingers? What if something had gone wrong? What if they'd opened up an artery and he was bleeding to death on the surgery table?  
  
How long did this kind of thing last? Two hours? Five? Ten? They'd let him stay until he could see Ignis, right? What if it took all night?  
  
His dad came into the waiting room quietly, without announcement, only Clarus by his side. He eased shut the door behind them, and Noctis looked up. 'Dad,' he croaked, and lurched forwards out of his chair at the same time as his dad stepped towards him and reached out to gather him up in his arms.  
  
'Noctis,' his dad was saying, crushing him tight in the hug, and Noctis clung back and buried his face in his dad's shoulder. He didn't care that he was crying, or shaking so hard he thought he'd fall apart. His dad was here. He'd make it better. It'd be okay. The relief was like being unpinned from beneath a ton of rock. Like all his organs turned over at once.  
  
He wasn't sure how long they stood like that, Sota and Clarus talking somewhere to one side of the room, too quiet to hear properly. He stopped crying after a while, but the trembles didn't go away entirely. His whole body was exhausted, worn down, like he'd been through the worst ever training session with Gladio times five, and it was all he could do to stay upright and stay holding on. Then he remembered how Ignis had to have felt, the blood everywhere and his whimpers, weak and desperate—  
  
'Noctis, shh,' his dad said, soothing him like he was a little kid, rocking him gently back and forth where they stood. He'd started crying again, he realised dully, clinging on to his dad's jacket and creasing it all up at the back. 'It'll be okay,' his dad said. 'You're safe; it'll all be okay.'  
  
When they finally parted — Noctis taking a handful of his dad's sleeve and not letting go as they sat down next to each other — he had to stop himself from simply curling up and falling asleep. He was bone-tired. His eyelids slid shut without him meaning them to, hot and heavy, and he couldn't get them to stay open no matter what he did.  
  
'I was filled in on my journey here,' his dad was saying, and Noctis turned his head and let it rest on his shoulder. 'They've caught everyone immediately involved, and investigations are ongoing into which, if any, larger group are responsible, and their motives. Ignis is in surgery; the last I heard, he's going to be out in a few hours, and will make a full recovery. The rapidity of his arrival here, from becoming injured, means elixir based healing will be fully effective.'  
  
'Oh,' Noctis said, the sound squeezing itself from his lungs. He should be more relieved, he felt, only he was so tired, and he'd known Ignis would had to have survived, undamaged, because he was Ignis, right?  
  
'When can I see him?' he asked. A few hours was like, three to five hours, right?  
  
His dad hesitated. 'Perhaps it'll be better to visit tomorrow,' he said, and a cold, empty wash of panic swept through Noctis, kicking away the exhaustion into trembling adrenaline.  
  
Noctis lifted his head, stared at his dad, met his eyes for the first time since he'd walked in. 'No,' he said, and he didn't even know why he couldn't go home without Ignis. Ignis was okay. He'd be okay. 'No,' he said again, because he couldn't leave without him, couldn't leave him here, on his own, go back and sleep in his bed while Ignis was halfway across the city without him—  
  
'He's been through a lot,' his dad was saying, but the words barely made it through the roar in Noctis' head. And anyway he knew Ignis had been through a lot, because he'd _been there_ , he'd seen it.  
  
'I don't care,' Noctis said, and realised as he said it that it was selfish and childish and he meant it anyway, because there was no way he'd leave without Ignis.  
  
What if something happened? What if they came back and hurt Ignis again?   
  
What if they came for _him,_ and Ignis wasn't there to protect him?  
  
'Noctis,' his dad said, soft and reproachable in the sort of way he never was, because it meant he was giving in. 'Noctis, he needs rest after what happened.'  
  
' _Please,_ ' Noctis said, clutched at his dad's sleeve harder. 'He can get rest; I just need to see him. He needs to see me. He was — he—'  
  
_He was begging for them to let him keep hurting himself,_ he tried to say but couldn't. The words stuck in his throat like thorns. Breathing around them hurt. Swallowing hurt.  
  
'Shhh,' his dad was saying again, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him in close. The smell of his cologne raked down Noctis' throat. 'We'll ask his doctor what she says, whether we can see him or not. But Ignis' well-being has to be our priority.'  
  
'I know,' Noctis said. But seeing Ignis was for Ignis' well-being. Ignis would want to see him, just as much as he wanted to see Ignis. That had to be right. Ignis would always want to see him.  
  
He pulled away, and, without thinking, a habit from nervous energy, pulled his phone from the armiger. Oh. He shoved it back in again. 'They gave me something, I think,' Noctis said. 'I couldn't access the armiger or anything. Ignis couldn't either. It… I guess it's worn off by now.'  
  
His dad was almost definitely frowning, so Noctis didn't look up at him. Instead he got his phone out again and unlocked it, checking his messages. There were lots — from Prompto, Gladio, his dad, Cor. Mostly from Prompto, he saw, scrolling through them. Prompto hadn't known what was up except that they'd been planning on meeting and then Noctis hadn't turned up, and Prompto had waited until he'd been told to go home. His messages were a string of confusion and jokes turning to concern, turning to fear masked with more jokes. His last was: _Gladio said something was up but couldnt say what. hope youre ok dude tell me when you can_  
  
Noctis stared at it. _I'm good, Ignis too. I'll tell you more later, sorry_  
  
It didn't really feel satisfying. He locked his phone again before Prompto could read the text and reply. He didn't want to have to tell Prompto anything. Not yet. He'd say it later. And probably there was going to be an official story so he had to keep to that — at least over text, anyway.  
  
'Why didn't you tell anyone?'  
  
Had his dad really been waiting for Noctis to lock his phone so he couldn't pretend to be distracted? 'I don't know,' he said, mumbling, still looking at his phone's blank screen. 'Didn't think of it.'  
  
'What sort of thing was it? An injection, or…?'  
  
'I don't know. I don't know, okay. It was… I mean I can't remember them actually giving me anything but I couldn't… I guess they must have done it when I was out or something. When they first got us.'  
  
'Are you sure it was something done directly to you? Only, I'm aware that there are reports of Niflheim technology that can block the crystal's magic for anything within its sphere of influence. It may have been that.'  
  
'Oh,' Noctis said. 'I guess. Maybe. I don't know. I still couldn't in the hospital, I don't think. Just after I arrived. But maybe I was doing it wrong or not trying properly, I don't know.'  
  
Had it been that? Had he even tried, earlier, or just assumed it wouldn't work? Fuck, he was tired. He'd just assumed it had been an injection or something, because… he didn't know. He didn't want to think about it.  
  
'Can you remember?'  
  
' _No,_ ' Noctis said, with more force than he meant, but it didn't matter because why wouldn't his dad just get off his back? He didn't remember, so why did it even matter? It had already worn off. It literally didn't matter any more.  
  
They lapsed back into silence. After a moment, his dad said: 'Noctis, I have a change of clothes for you. Why don't you shower and put them on? Or I have your pyjamas. You can sleep while we're waiting.'  
  
Noctis was half ready to say, _I'm not tired,_ when he caught himself — he was exhausted. He wanted that sudden prospect of bed and sleep more than anything. And his dad would be there. He'd stay with him.  
  
More than anything — except—  
  
'Ignis,' Noctis said, instead. 'I want to see him.'  
  
'It may be a few more hours before he's out of surgery,' his dad said. 'I can see you're ready to drop off where you're sitting. I promise I'll wake you as soon as there's news of him.'  
  
Hours. He didn't think he could last that long. He wanted to see Ignis, but… his dad was here. And he'd said Ignis would be okay. He said he'd wake him.  
  
The four of them moved into a spare room, and Noctis showered, got changed into his pyjamas, and curled up in the bed. His dad sat next to him, pulling the chair as close as it would get. A doctor came around and took a sample of Noctis' blood while he lay there, eyes drifting shut, loose-limbed and already half gone. 'Just in case,' his dad said, his hand on Noctis', holding it while the doctor fussed over him. They dimmed the lights; Noctis fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It was night when Noctis woke up; the window was an empty blackness where it peeked out from behind the blinds. The lights were still dimmed, but bright to wake to. His dad’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

‘Noctis?’

Noctis made a rough noise, brushing away his dad’s hand and sitting up with effort. He ground the heel of his palm against his eyes, attempting to force away the sleep that still clung to him.

‘The doctor said we can visit Ignis now. He was asking for you, in fact.’

Noctis’ heart thumped in his chest, hard. His inhale almost choked him; the breath of his exhale shuddered. He almost stumbled as he got up, the blanket tangling up in his legs, catching his heels. The light being turned on full almost blinded him.

Sota and Clarus were still there, though they waited outside politely as Noctis got dressed. His dad looked at an empty corner of the room, his face a tired, blank mask. The clock on the bedside table read 3:28am.

‘Hey,’ Noctis said, putting on his shoes, and his dad glanced at him. ‘Thanks. For, you know. Waiting.’

His dad blinked, slowly, and turned to face Noctis properly. ‘You don’t need to thank me,’ he said. He smiled, but looked, if anything, even more tired than before. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there sooner.’

There was a moment when they just stood there, and Noctis didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to see Ignis. He wanted his dad to stop looking so tired, unhappy even through his faint smile. ‘Should—’ he said, ‘should we go?’

‘Of course,’ his dad said. His smile twitched, and he turned, and left the room. Noctis followed.

They were walking too slow, Noctis thought, as he alternated between staring at his dad’s back and the heels of his shoes. His heart had started to pound as they walked. He felt lightheaded, still half asleep, almost convinced it were all a dream. Maybe he should have asked for some water or something, washed his face. Sota was walking just behind him, and the sound of her made him want to twitch, turn around to check it was still her and not someone else.

Ignis had asked to see him. He held that thought, gripping on to it with both hands. Ignis wanted to see him. He was out of surgery. Maybe he could even come back with them to the Citadel that night — or, morning, Noctis supposed. Ignis wanted to see him, anyway, and he was fine. They’d been able to get to him quick enough to heal him completely.

There wasn’t anyone else in the corridor. The whole place felt empty. The bright lights made his eyes sting.

Ignis’ room was identical to the one Noctis had been sleeping in; Ignis was lying in bed, flat on his back. There weren’t any wires or machines or even any IV drips, all the things Noctis realised he’d been expecting. Ignis looked sort of like there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all, like the last day hadn’t happened, only he was limp and a little grey and his hair was all messed up. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. His eyes were red, swollen. He looked like he tried to sit up as Noctis and his dad came in, struggling with his elbows pushing into the mattress, but he failed, and slumped back down.

Noctis went up to stand by him, skirting around his dad and Clarus, who’d stopped in the middle of the room. He dug down in the covers and found Ignis’ hand — cool, dry, clenching back weakly around Noctis’ fingers.

‘Hey,’ Noctis said, and his mouth refused to go back to the correct shape afterwards. His lips squashed together, pulled out at the corners, trying to force back the sob that was swallowing up his whole face.

‘Noct.’ A tug, barely present but still, undeniably there — Noctis followed it and clambered up onto the bed, careful to put his knees on the mattress and not squash or jog Ignis. He pulled back the covers, shoving them aside so he could see Ignis, put his hands on his stomach, slide them under the loose pyjama top and feel the skin around his waist — intact, whole, warm against his fingers. His hands were sweating, and he could feel the flush in his face, and he couldn’t see that great through the swell of tears in his eyes.

‘I’m fine, Noct,’ Ignis said. ‘Are you? They said — they said we were rescued before they could touch you, but—’

His hands ran up Noct’s arms, over his chest, the sides of his ribcage, up to rest, trembling lightly, on his shoulders.

‘You stupid—’ the words tangled up, broke the barrier that had kept the sob in. It escaped. Noctis’ face was burning, crumpled up, tears scalding hot. His chest heaved, and his arms holding him up collapsed. He tucked his face into Ignis’ chest. ‘They didn’t. Didn’t touch me.’

Ignis’ hands were on him, pressing at his shoulders, but they were too weak to actually achieve anything. It felt like Noctis’ body was filled with sand, wet, and moving was like hauling deadweights. He couldn’t stop crying. Somehow he kicked off his shoes and then he was burrowed in under the covers, half beside and half on top of Ignis, hands in his armpits and clutching at the fabric of his top. Ignis’ hands were on him, his arms curled around his back. It took a while to realise, because of the way Noctis’ sobs were making him shake, but Ignis was shaking hard, too.

It made him exhausted all over again, like he hadn’t been sleeping for the past ten or so hours. And Ignis was warm, and present, his body solid in a way a bed by itself was not. Noctis was tired. The tight, awful knot in his chest was gone. He relaxed against Ignis, more from being physically unable to hold the tension than anything else, and closed his eyes. Ignis smelt of some kind of chemical, dressed in pyjamas that were not his. His shoulder was pressing into Noctis’ chest, uncomfortable but not quite enough be worth to doing anything about it. And none of it really mattered anyway, because it was still Ignis, still there, still alive. He didn’t care if he looked stupid, or childish. Ignis was going to be okay.

Noctis had started to doze off when a hand that was not Ignis’ touched his arm. His eyes snapped open, but he didn’t move.

‘Noctis,’ his dad said. Ignis’ hands clenched, suddenly, tightening their grip on Noctis’ shirt.

‘I’m not going,’ Noctis said, not looking up, not taking his face out of the dip over Ignis’ collar bone. The response had been automatic, but the extra time and awareness in the pause afterwards didn’t change anything. He didn’t want to leave Ignis. He wasn’t going to. Not again. Not when he didn’t have to. Not when Ignis was gripping Noctis back just as tight.

‘Ignis needs to rest.’ His dad sounded tired, disapproving. His hand disappeared from Noct’s arm, but Ignis’ grip didn’t loosen.

‘Ignis is resting. He can rest while I’m here.’

‘I believe that’s something Ignis and his doctor should decide, not you, Noctis.’

‘No.’

‘Noctis—’ A hand, back on his arm. Noctis flinched, and beneath him Ignis flinched as well, breathing harsh in Noctis’ ear. His arms around Noctis were trembling.

‘No. No. I’m not—’ Noctis’ voice was going strangled, faster and faster, words tangling themselves up together. ‘No. I’m not leaving; please, I’m not,  _ I’m not _ —’

His dad stepped away. The snarl of words and panted breaths eased, just a little, in Noctis’ throat. He still didn’t look up, or move his head from where he was pressed down against Ignis. Ignis’ legs slipped up either side of one of Noctis’, and clamped down with his knees and thighs, holding him there.

Time seemed to slow again. Ignis’ body was hot where they were pressed together. Noctis could feel his breathing, the rise and fall of his stomach. He could feel his heartbeat, and hear it, too. He thought, if he moved just a little, he could press his mouth to the soft skin of Ignis’ neck and taste it.

He was overheating, and the air was stale and humid, trapped between his face and Ignis’ body. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay wrapped up in Ignis’ arms, squashing Ignis against the mattress with his body, Ignis’ arms holding him tight.

‘Noctis. Son, please.’ His dad again, though no hand descended this time. ‘I understand you’re feeling—’ he paused, swallowed back a crack in his voice, ‘overwhelmed. I understand it was an exceptionally difficult, frightening encounter. But you have to think of Ignis. You’re being selfish. He needs to recover, and you need to let him.’

He still wasn’t explaining why Ignis needed to be alone to recover.

‘I’m not asking you to leave; you can stay here for as long as you like. But please, sit by the bed. You’re crushing him. He needs — the doctor will need to check up on him, make sure he’s recovering, and she can’t do that if you’re lying there on top of him like that.’

_ I’ll move when she comes, then _ , Noctis thought, but saying it was too much effort. Even opening his mouth was an insurmountable chore; organising his tongue, his lips, to find the coordination between breath and mouth and thought was an impossible task.

Another pause. Ignis breathed against him, rising and falling, lungs inside his ribs, safe, unharmed, whole.

‘Ignis?’ Regis asked. Noctis tensed. ‘Are you comfortable? Would you like Noctis to move?’

The silence as Ignis didn’t answer rang in Noctis’ ears. Then: ‘No, thank you, Your Majesty.’

His dad didn’t answer that. Footsteps detailed him crossing the room.

Noctis was asleep when the door opened, but woke, confused for a few seconds as to what he was hearing, where he was. Then his body all tensed up at once, and beneath him Ignis made a sound — short, breathless. His hands scrabbled up Noctis’ sides from where they’d fallen to lie on the bed. One fell on the small of Noctis’ back, the other on the nape of his neck.

A presence to one side of the bed, and Noctis clutched at Ignis tighter as he was rolled away from it, but he let himself be moved off Ignis and onto the bed beside him, eyes squeezed shut.

‘Good morning,’ a woman’s voice said, and Noctis felt himself freeze. His heart thumped in his throat like it had got wedged in there, squeezing shut his airway. He couldn’t move, even to look up or protest as Ignis’ hand left his back.

‘How are you feeling? May I take your arm to check your blood pressure?’

‘Much better, thank you,’ Ignis said. The low vibration of his voice tickled in Noctis’ jaw. There was the sound of mechanical beeping. Ignis shifted.

‘Any new soreness? Difficulty breathing?’

‘No.’

Noctis’ fingers were digging into Ignis’ sides, hard enough his hands ached, but he couldn’t let go. Ignis didn’t try to shake him off. Could the doctor see it? His dad?

‘Hm, your heart rate is a little high,’ the woman said. ‘Are you feeling all right, Ignis?’

‘I’m fine,’ Ignis said, and he was lying through his teeth — how could they not hear him lie through his teeth? Then he was moving, sitting up a little, crowding Noctis down between his body and the mattress. One of his hands went back, pressing on Noctis’ chest and keeping him pinned. When Noctis shoved against it he pushed down harder.

‘Are you okay to carry on?’

‘Yes,’ Ignis said, and was at once firm and lying, flat-out lying, and Noctis tried to sit up but Ignis wouldn’t let him.

‘I’m just going to lift up your top, have a look at your stomach and sides. Then I’ll press down lightly and you tell me if anything hurts or feels uncomfortable. All right?’

‘Yes,’ Ignis said, and twisted so he was sitting up properly, still with his hand on Noctis. His hand was trembling; or perhaps Noctis was trembling. He couldn’t tell. He knew he had to do something, get that woman away from Ignis, but he didn’t think he could move. Not out from behind Ignis, who was shielding him again. His heartbeat was going rabbit-fast. When Ignis’ hand landed on his, prying them gently from him, Noctis let him, and clung instead to Ignis’ trousers, the loose fabric around his hips.

There was the sound of rustling, fabric. ‘Breathe in for me?’ the woman said.

Ignis breathed in.

‘Any pain or discomfort?’

‘No,’ Ignis said, but it didn’t sound like he was telling the truth.

‘Ah,’ the woman said. ‘I think you’re a little tense right now. Would later be a better time? Or perhaps we can do this in another room, where it’s more quiet, less of an audience?’

‘ _ No, _ ’ Ignis said. ‘I can do it. I can — please. I can.’

‘Perhaps it might be best to stop for now, if you’re not in any pain—’

Ignis made a motion — not quite a flinch, an aborted jerk, his whole body tensing up at once. ‘No,’ he said, ‘please, no, I’ll do it — I can do it — please, let me, don’t—’

He was gasping out the words, pressing down on Noctis harder and harder like he wanted to crush him right down into, or maybe through, the mattress. ‘Ignis,’ the lady tried to say, but Ignis interrupted her.

‘I’ll do it, please let me—’

‘Ignis.’ That was his dad, and Noctis only just remembered he was even in the room at all. ‘Ignis, you’re safe. Do you know where you are?’

‘I—’ Ignis cut himself off, and gripped Noctis. His hands were sweating, hot, even through Noctis’ shirt.

‘Please, if you could wait outside for a moment,’ his dad said, a murmur.

‘Ignis,’ Clarus said, speaking up for the first time. His voice was quiet, gentle, in a way Noctis hadn’t ever head it before, not even when he spoke to Iris. ‘Take a moment. Tell me, who’s in the room?’

Ignis’ hand twitched tighter, hard enough to bruise. ‘I — I’m sorry, I—’ he said, stumbled, panting, and he was shaking, it wasn’t just Noctis. ‘You are, and — King Regis. I don’t—’

‘This is Sota, one of my glaive. That’s all right, I don’t think you’ve met before. Is there anyone else?’

‘Me.’

There was a pause before Clarus spoke again. ‘Anyone else, Ignis?’

‘Noct.’ Ignis’ voice came out a croak, quiet, barely there.

‘Yes, that’s good. And do you know where we are?’

‘A hospital.’

‘That’s right. I know it might feel like it, but you’re not in any danger, now, nor is Noctis—’

Ignis’ hands clamped down on Noctis as soon as his name came out of Clarus’ mouth, and Noctis couldn’t help the surprised cry, a short, sharp intake of breath at the pain. Then Ignis was yanking at him, hard enough it felt like he’d yank Noctis’ arm out of his socket, pulling and squeezing and making him yelp.

‘Ignis! You’re safe; Noctis is safe. Let him go—’

Ignis’ hand, the one that wasn’t clamped round Noctis’s arm, was on Noctis’ face — a finger pressing down on his shut eye, another slipping into his mouth. He was shoving Noctis down again by the face, yanking at his arm, and both Noctis’ dad and Clarus were speaking but Noctis couldn’t actually hear what, only that both their voices were raised, loud, clamouring with his own ragged breath, Ignis’ sobbing gasps above him.

‘Please don’t — please, I’ll do what you want, please don’t hurt him—’

‘Ignis!’ Noctis’ voice croaked, and he didn’t have any more time to speak before Ignis slapped his hand over Noctis’ mouth, shoving down. Noctis’ neck twisted painfully, and he cried out again, muffled.

The world tumbled over as Noctis fell from the bed in a tangle of limbs and bedcovers; hands caught him under the arms, dragging him backwards over the floor. It was Sota, and she tilted up his face to check him, patted him down, and only left him when he shook her off and scrambled back. She offered him a tight smile and went to kneel by Clarus, who had Ignis pinned face-down to the floor, twisting and gasping and kicking. She grabbed Ignis’ legs, holding him still.

Noctis rolled to his knees, already lunging forwards to pull them off, when a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back, onto his ass. ‘Noctis,’ his dad said, hard, loud. ‘Stay back.’

‘Like fuck,’ Noctis snarled, trying to shove his dad off, get back on his feet. ‘Tell them to get off! They’re making him worse, they’re hurting him—’

‘They’ll let go once you’re at a safe distance.’

Disbelief, sudden realisation, hit Noctis, made grind to a halt. ‘What? He’s  _ Ignis _ . What the fuck? He’s — he’s not going to  _ hurt _ me.’

‘Until he’s calmed down, we can’t be sure.’

‘No,’ Noctis said. ‘No, fuck that.’ He twisted, getting onto his feet and tearing himself from his dad’s grip, but Sota was in front of him.

‘Your Highness,’ she said. Behind her, Ignis was panting, moaning, crushed to the floor. ‘Please. Step back. We can let him when you’re—’

‘Let him go now,’ Noctis said, snarled. ‘ _ Get the fuck off— _ ’

He warped; he didn’t even register what he pulled from the armiger and threw, but he was beside Clarus and shoving at him. Arms around his waist pulled him away, and he kicked as he was yanked off his feet, dragged back, clawing at the hands dragging him away from Ignis. He grabbed something again to throw, warp, but hands grabbed his wrists, and his dad was in front of him.

‘Noctis!’ Hands on his shoulders, gripping, hard. ‘You will control yourself!’

His shout left nothing behind. Even Ignis’ strangled panting was gone quiet. ‘Noctis,’ his dad said. ‘We can’t help him unless you’re letting us.’

‘Help?’ Noctis tried to look over, beyond his dad to where he could just about make out Clarus, but not Ignis. ‘How the fuck are — how are you—’ His voice had gone broken, hard, like trying to force little stones up his throat. His legs were weak, barely even holding him up.

‘Sit down,’ his dad said, and Sota let go of him, and he was guided back to the bed.

Finally, Noctis turned to look at Ignis, still on the floor, still crushed beneath Clarus. His arms were twisted, wrapped around himself then caught with his wrists behind his back, Clarus straddling his hips. His mouth was open, eyes tight shut.

‘Ignis,’ Clarus said, low, soothing, like he wasn’t literally bending Ignis’ arms back, restraining him, squashing him against the floor. ‘Ignis, can you hear me?’

Ignis didn’t respond. His chest was heaving, awkward, no room to properly expand.

‘Ignis. Ignis Scientia. Respond if you can hear me.’

For a moment, there wasn’t anything. Then, a small, broken whimper, a noise on the tail end of an exhale. ‘Please,’ Ignis said, tiny, like the word was scraped out of him. ‘Don’t — don’t hurt him.’

He kicked his feet, scuffing his toes against the floor, but weakly, and it didn’t do anything anyway.

Beside him, his dad made some kind of motion; Noctis didn’t see what, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ignis. He — he needed to do something, but he didn’t know what, and he felt vaguely sure that even if he knew what he probably couldn’t do it anyway. His limbs had gone useless, his body like the laggiest game ever played on shitty wifi.

He shut his eyes, fists clenching the sheets, feeling them come loose from where they’d been tucked in. He wanted his dad’s hands back on his shoulders, holding him, anchoring him down. He wanted Ignis.

‘Come on,’ his dad said, and touched Noctis’ arm, just above the elbow. ‘We’ll gave them some space.’

Noctis froze, just as he’d been shifting forwards to get up. ‘What?’ he said. ‘No. I can’t — I can’t leave. He’s — he needs me.’

‘He needs to calm down,’ his dad said, and Noctis wanted to snap at him, tell him,  _ stop saying calm down. _ Because it wasn’t like he was upset, or — or angry, or anything, he didn’t need to  _ calm down _ , he was — he thought—

‘No,’ Noctis said.

‘Noctis, he’s remembering what happened to him. He’s living through it again, and it’s very likely you’re making him worse.’

Noctis’ eyes flickered to his dad, then back again to Ignis.

‘He may have to be sedated,’ his dad said.

‘I don’t want to leave.’

‘Noct.’

‘Please.’

His dad took him by the shoulders, turned him, and Noctis allowed himself to be taken from the room, tucked under his dad's arm, even though he barely fit. He pressed himself to his dad's side and didn't look back. It was for Ignis' sake; if it helped Ignis, then he'd leave. He wouldn't be selfish. Not after Ignis had — not after he'd—

He didn't want to look back and see whether Ignis was looking at him. If Ignis recognised him, if he thought he was being taken away. He didn't want to know what Ignis thought was happening.

He sat in a room down the corridor, with his dad and Clarus, who came in a few minutes after them. There was a TV. Noctis wondered dully what'd be playing if he turned it on — whether the news of the kidnap was out already, and his rescue, and the details. People must have seen him wander into the hospital, so they'd know he was around and unharmed — though had they also seen Ignis, bloodied and half dead? Had someone got to the paramedics in time to stop them telling anyone what they'd seen, even if only in passing, the briefest of details?

What about Ignis? Was anyone saying anything about him, his injuries, the way they'd tortured him? The Citadel press team would spin it so he was a passive victim, probably, since he wasn't official Crownsguard yet and having a minor, someone not employed to do anything but study, sacrifice himself bodily for the prince — right, it was a bad look, Noctis knew. So they'd play up the kidnapper's sadism, how no one could have predicted it, how terrible it was that not only was the young prince put in such danger but his friend, another child, was caught in the crossfire.

There were footsteps in the corridor outside, hurried. Noctis' head jerked up to the door, but they didn't stop and didn't come in. On their way to Ignis? Or doing something else not related to them at all?

Was Ignis okay? What was happening, right now? 

Were they safe with just Clarus? There were probably other Glaive around, just not in the room.

His dad stood up, and Noctis' neck hurt with the speed at which he turned to look at him.

'One moment,' his dad said, and had his phone to his ear before he was two strides to the door. Clarus went with him, and left Noctis alone in the room.

The door clicked shut. He couldn't hear them in the corridor.

Anxiety flooded him, like a blow from the flat of Gladio's great sword. His heart slammed in his chest; he broke out in sweat all over. He could barely breathe. His mouth was open, throat dry and raw and chest heaving, and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. This was — fuck, this was stupid, but he couldn’t stop the fear that froze him, tearing up his chest. He was fine; he just needed to push through it; where was Ignis? He wanted Ignis — he wanted his dad. He wanted to stop feeling like he was dying.

His eyes were squeezed shut. Tears welled out of them anyway, hot on his cheeks. This was stupid. He was fine. His dad was just on the other side of the door, on the phone. Ignis was alive. They were all fine. Clarus was there, and Sota, and other Kingsglaive. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, trying to force itself up his throat until he threw it up. Breathe. He had to breathe. Cold water, but he didn’t think he could manage to get up to get any.

What were they doing to Ignis? Had they sedated him? Why would they even need to? He wasn't going to hurt anyone. He hadn't done anything except try to protect Noctis, even if he hadn't needed to.

He wanted to go find him, only he knew he probably shouldn't, and anyway he couldn't move. He was helpless, just as useless as he'd been when they'd tortured Ignis. Made Ignis torture himself to save Noctis.

His stomach turned, and his throat tightened. Fuck — fuck, he was going to throw up — he took a gasping breath, trying to force the feeling down, away. He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't uncurl. Where could he throw up into? There was an ensuite — could he make it to the toilet? Fuck, he didn't want to throw up on the floor. Fuck, fuck—

Gods, why was he so useless? His hands covered his mouth. His stomach bucked, though he managed to swallow down the burning vomit as it hit the back of his mouth.

He couldn't do anything. He couldn't save himself. He couldn't save Ignis. He couldn't even deal with having been saved, having seen Ignis be hurt. Tortured. He should be doing whatever was needed to help Ignis, not just... sitting here, panicking.

Time passed. He didn't throw up. The anxiety leached out of him, leaving him exhausted, sickly feeling, floating. He still didn't know where his dad was, or Ignis, or anyone; he could be alone in the whole of Insomnia. He tucked himself into the bed, too tired to take off his shoes, or unbutton his jacket so it wasn't tugging at his shoulders, and fell asleep.

He woke to his dad's hand on his back, rocking him awake. Sleep left only reluctantly, dragging at him, sticky and weighting down his body, thoughts.

'We need to get back to the Citadel,' his dad said. 'Noctis? Come on, up we get.'

Noctis squinted, pulling at the threads of his thoughts, and sat up. He scrubbed at his face. 'Ignis?' He said. His mouth was sticky, nasty tasting. He wanted to go back to sleep; exhaustion pulled at him.

'Ignis is going to stay here for a while longer,' his dad said. 'They want to keep him under observation, just in case there are any lingering complications from the surgery.'

That, Noctis knew, even without being fully awake, was a lie. But, if it was for Ignis' best interests — okay, then. He could cope.

He probably couldn’t cope, but that wasn’t the point.

He ended up clinging to his dad's sleeve again, and his dad stood in the bathroom door while he brushed his teeth and washed his face. He still felt unpleasantly grimey, a thin layer of something coating him, but at least it was better now than before. 'I want to see Ignis,' he said, half expecting to get refused straight away, bracing himself to argue. But his dad only nodded, and they were joined outside by a glaive Noctis didn't know and Cor, this time, as they made their way down the corridor. 

Ignis had been put in a new room. The door had to be opened with a swipe card; the sound of it locking as it closed behind them, a decisive click, made Noctis turn to look at it. He tried the handle but it wouldn't open.

'You're locking him in?' His voice was shrill with indignation. 'What if there's a fire or something? He's not crazy _.  _ What the fuck? _ ' _

He turned, looking to Ignis for confirmation that it was a stupid idea, not just stupid but insulting and unnecessary and dangerous, only Ignis wasn't even looking at him. He was on the bed, flat on his back. His eyes were open, just about, but staring at the ceiling.

'In the end they were forced to sedate him,' his dad said, softly. 'But now they know more about his condition, they'll know how to deal with it in the future. Don't worry, Noctis. He'll be all right.'

'In the event of a fire or other emergency, the door will unlock automatically,' Cor said, mildly. Noctis couldn’t even bear to even look at him. He ignored him.

'Can I—' Noctis said, and hesitated, wanting to go up to Ignis, not wanting to do something to — make him do what happened last time.

He ended up walking to Ignis before anyone could tell him not to, but they didn't stop him either.

'Noct.' Ignis' eyes finally moved down to meet his. He didn't smile, or really do anything at all, except open his mouth for a small sigh, a gentle exhale.

'Hey, Specs,' Noctis said, and reached over to grab at Ignis' hand.

Ignis' skin was cool, dry. He didn't grip back at first, then when he did it was weak, nothing at all like his normal, firm grasp. His hand lay in Noctis', his fingers curled around Noctis', just barely. He closed his eyes.

Noct let himself be led out of the room, out a back door of the hospital, and into a car with his dad, Cor, and the glaive from earlier. He shut his eyes and leant his head against the door, pretending to be asleep so no one would talk to him.

The days passed in a blur. He went back to school and repeated the official story of what and why and how it had all happened. He was excused from homework and evening classes with his Citadel tutors. His training with Gladio was rearranged to be low impact cardio work. His magic and warping lessons were cancelled. Each morning he expected Ignis back — it’d been a day, then two days, and why wasn’t he back yet? Three days was pushing it, why would Ignis need to be kept in the hospital for three days when he wasn’t injured? — but Ignis did not come home.

One of Ignis' secretaries brought up the meeting minutes and things Ignis ought to have brought him, and she smiled and told him gently that he didn't have to look at them if he didn't feel up to it. Noctis nodded at her, returning the smile automatically, and shoved the folio under the pile of books and schoolwork and junk he had lying around on the table when she left.

He wanted to see Ignis. He wanted to know how Ignis was doing that wasn't sanitised, wasn't  _ he's still recovering but doing well, your highness, I expect he'll be out in no time _ . He sent Ignis texts, tried to call him, but his phone was off or dead or maybe Ignis had blocked him, even.

He asked, four days after he'd left Ignis at the hospital, about going to visit him. He'd sent an email to Ignis' uncle, because he had to know how Ignis was doing, and would be able to say if Ignis wanted to see him or not, and whether Ignis was ignoring his texts or just wasn’t getting them.

Ignis had to want to see him. It was Ignis. Of course he would. He wouldn’t be Ignis without Noctis.

The reply didn’t come at all until two days later. Noctis read it, then reread it. He picked out which parts he could ignore, the formality and well-wishes, and copied the relevant lines out to stare at:

_ Ignis is still unwell, and may find visitors a little overwhelming at this time. I'm sure he appreciates that you're thinking of him, however. If you would like to visit I can put you in contact with his doctor, of course, but please be aware it may not be possible. _

What was that meant to mean? Wasn't that just a polite way of saying Ignis didn't want to see him but couldn't refuse if he demanded it? Or the doctor was refusing Ignis visitors? Noctis didn’t care what the doctor thought, but did Ignis want to see him? Wouldn’t Ignis have already asked to see him, or even asked how he was, or anything that said more than  _ he appreciates that you’re thinking of him? _

Only, maybe Ignis didn’t want to see him. Maybe Noctis had been wrong to assume he did, and always would, when it’d been because of Noctis that Ignis had been tortured in the first place. Noctis wouldn't want to see — only he would. He was sure he’d want to see Ignis if it were the other way around, but maybe Ignis just didn't feel the same.

And it hurt; it really fucking hurt, but that was being selfish, and wasn't the whole point of what he needed to be doing was doing what was best for Ignis?

So, right, if Ignis didn't want to see him then he wouldn't have to. And if he wanted to quit then that'd be fine, too. Noctis would do whatever would make Ignis happiest, because Noctis owed it to him, and even if he didn't then he still wanted that anyway. To make Ignis happy.

Days passed. No one talked about Ignis, except for the news, which didn’t release Ignis’ name or what exactly had happened to him, but said he was still in hospital (and then stupid fucks talked about what that meant since the victim had had access to healing magic, if he was just  _ that damaged  _ to still be in hospital, and they didn’t even want to say brain injury except they were clearly thinking it, and they were wrong, wrong,  _ wrong _ —).

The rest of the world seemed to forget that Ignis existed at all.

He existed, Noctis told himself. Of course Ignis existed. He just… didn’t exist within Noctis’ life, any more.

Noctis went to school and the therapy they’d scheduled him in for without asking whether he wanted or needed it. He did his training and stayed over a few odd nights at Gladio’s place, where he finally managed to get a full night’s sleep, lying there and listening to the sound of Gladio breathe, trying to feel safe enough to close his eyes.

He didn’t really feel like he existed, either. The whole world felt on pause. Or maybe he was the one on pause. Waiting. What if he was waiting for Ignis to come back, and he never did?

Three weeks later, Noctis got an email telling him that Ignis would be returning to work on Monday. Three days’ time. It didn't say anything else important — didn't say how Ignis was, if he was better, if he was happy. If he even wanted to see Noctis ever again.

Noct replied, short and professional, then went back to bed. It was noon. He buried himself in the blankets and shut his eyes tight.

On Monday morning, Ignis turned up at his rooms to bring him lunch, tidy up a little, and take him to school. Like he always had.

'Good morning,' he said, and he looked — he looked the same as he always did, not thinner or paler or whatever Noctis had been imagining, the stereotypes for people having been in hospital. Ignis looked fine, but then as Noctis stood there and stared at him like a fucking idiot, he hesitated, pleasant smile cracking, visibly taken aback. 

Noctis was ready to go. He'd been ready for twenty minutes, actually, eaten breakfast and washed and dressed and got everything in his school bag. He still just stood there, watching Ignis pick up the junk he’d left lying around, and the words he'd been rehearsing all weekend trying and failing to form on his tongue.

'It's okay if you wanna quit,' he didn't say. 'I get it if you want to move to another job, do something that you like that isn't to do with me.'

'Are you ready to head off?' Ignis said finally, and it sounded so normal Noctis was nodding and grabbing his bag before he could stop himself.

'Sure,' he said. 'Let's go.'

He went to school. On the way Ignis told him about his weekly schedule (still minimal, and Noctis wondered if Ignis was being given half duties as well, or if he'd been shoved back into his full-time job and own studies already). He asked how Noctis' schoolwork was going, and whether he needed help in anything. He commented on the retirement of one of the senior Crown lawyers that had happened and apparently Noctis ought to have known about.

It sounded like a recording of something Noctis had already watched, a cutscene in a game he was being forced to play again. 'Right,' he said. 'Got it. Sure.'

He sounded distant and distracted even to himself.

He needed to ask how Ignis was. Make some kind of conversation — any kind. Say how glad he was that Ignis was out of the hospital, finally. Ask what the food was like. Make a joke about the good drugs.

They pulled up outside the school; Noctis mumbled a thanks, got out, and went inside.

He thought he wouldn't be able to concentrate through school, but it was okay. Things went back to how it had been — flat, like Noctis was watching from behind himself. Gritty with exhaustion. And he and Ignis hadn't said anything other than was normal, standard, what they always talked about. That was — that was okay, right? Better that it was completely standard than something weird and wrong and abnormal, right? And maybe, maybe Ignis didn't actually want to leave him.

Or if he did he'd wait a while first and Noctis could at least enjoy having him until he did leave. It'd probably be that, because it wasn't like Ignis to ignore something like Noctis being kidnapped, and the fact that he was acting normal was therefore abnormal.

So yeah, he was probably waiting for something before he left, or... moved department, or whatever. Noctis wondered if Gladio knew, but Gladio had been terse and flip-flopping between intense and casual, friendly and professional since the incident, and trying to guess what he'd be like at that moment made Noctis' head hurt. And Gladio never wanted to speak about Ignis. Noctis got it — Gladio felt like he should have been there, should have been the one to protect Noctis, since that was literally his job. And sometimes when Noctis was terse back, it was because he wished it had been Gladio instead of Ignis, because since it was Gladio's job he wouldn't be about to leave like Ignis was.

Then he felt bad, because he shouldn't want any of his friends to have been tortured, literally their job or not. And Gladio would probably have told him if he knew something about Ignis, because he could be an asshole sometimes but he wasn't — wasn't an actual asshole. Not like some people were. He’d let Noctis stay with him, after all, set up a camp bed so they’d be able to sleep in the same room without Noctis having to even ask for it. They’d eaten junk food and played games and watched crappy movies, and he’d clearly tried hard not to be weird.

Then they’d gone back to sniping at each other, trying to connect like they’d used to and missing somewhere in the middle.

He’d thought the world would go back to how it should be now that Ignis was back. It hadn’t. Waiting for Ignis had been his one solution, and now? He had no fucking clue.

Since he didn't have any homework and wasn't expected to do his evening lessons or keep up with the Citadel's daily shit, Ignis didn't actually need to do anything except drop Noctis and a few files off. He still drove Noctis back from school and walked him up to his rooms, like he’d always used to when he had actual reason to. He carried Noctis’ bag, as if that justified the journey up, then hesitated in the doorway.

‘I — are you in need of anything?’ he said, as he handed Noctis his bag so Noctis could fish out the keys and unlock the door. ‘I realise there’s nothing in the way of homework, or—‘

There wasn't anything, no excuse to invite him in. Saying,  _ hey, want to come in and hang out _ , was weird when Ignis probably didn't want anything to do with him any more. He couldn’t exactly ask Ignis to come in and cook or clean for him, either. Ignis always let himself in whenever he wanted to, anyway. At least, he had.

'Uh, no,' Noctis said, but Ignis didn't move, and Noctis couldn't exactly shut the door in his face. 'But, thanks, I mean.'

Why was he still standing there? Did he want Noctis to invite him in so he could tell him he was leaving in private? As soon as possible?

'Noct,' Ignis said, eventually, then trailed off again. He shifted, glancing down to the floor, to the doorframe, back to Noctis. 'I suppose I should be off, then,' he said. He still didn't move.

'Yeah. If you want. You probably have work and stuff to do, right?'

'Ah, no. They've actually relieved me of a good deal of my duties. Just for the time being, while I... recuperate. They had been pushing for an extended leave, my uncle especially, but I—' He stopped himself. There was something wrong about him — something in the way he stood, his eyes flickering to and from Noct like he couldn't bear to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Something in his voice, hesitant in a way it never was.

'Yeah,' Noctis said, just to say something to fill the awful, awkward silence between them. Silences with Ignis were never awkward. Annoyed, sure, or upset, or pointed, whatever. Even really, really angry, furious to the point of wordlessness, sometimes — just never awkward. 

'Yes. I — Noct, could I come in? I wanted to say something, and I thought it'd be better inside than standing in the corridor. Not that it’ll take long, and I can come back later if you have other things to be doing, or I can say it tomorrow morning or after school, of course, if that's better for you.' He stopped because he ran out of breath, it seemed like, rather than anything else.

'Now's good,' Noctis said, then regretted it, because this was Ignis saying he was going to quit, wasn't it? But he couldn’t take it back now. And whatever was best for Ignis. He stepped back, kicked off his shoes, and went to dump his bag on the table. He didn't look back at Ignis, and the achingly familiar sounds of him taking his shoes off and setting them to the side, putting on the pair of guest slippers that were unspokenly his. 

But Noctis had to do what was best for Ignis. And if that meant letting him quit, and leave, then he'd do it. Because it was his fault Ignis had been hurt. Because he wanted Ignis to be happy, even if it meant being happy without Noctis.

Ignis unbuttoned his jacket, looked almost about to shrug it off, then kept it on. He sat down on the edge of the couch, and Noctis slumped down on the arm of the chair opposite, balancing with one foot on the cushions, back to the wall. After a moment he slid down to sit properly on the chair.

'I'm glad you're all right,' Ignis said, fidgeting. 'At least — in as much as can be expected. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. In the last three weeks, that is. But I hear you… Gladio had you over a few times.'

Noctis stared at him, though he was looking down at his hands, and didn't see. 'Specs,' Noctis said. 'You were in the hospital. You — yeah you weren't there, but it's not like — Specs, you were in the hospital.'

'For three weeks longer than necessary,' Ignis said, then, quickly, all in one breath: 'Noct, if I make you uncomfortable or am unpleasant to be around due to associated memories, I understand completely and will of course step down from my position.’

For a split second, Noctis didn't understand. The words did not register, could not string together in his head into anything coherent at all. Then he figured it out, and he didn't even know what the emotion was that hit him, hard. Ignis was framing wanting to leave as doing it for Noctis' benefit. Was the sudden tightness in his chest hurt, or anger? Or just the grief at the confirmation that Ignis did want to leave after all, because even if Noctis had known it he'd still kinda hoped that, maybe, just maybe, he'd been wrong. 

Was Ignis really going to make him say he wanted him to go?

Because he didn't. He really, really didn't. He wanted Ignis to stay, more than anything, even if it mean he was selfish and terrible and an awful person, much less friend.

'Don't leave,' he said, and it didn't matter if he was a shitty person, the worst in the world, because even if he were shitty he'd still have Ignis. Ignis would stay no matter how much he fucked up, so long as he asked. 'Specs, don't leave. Don't leave me.'

If Ignis just stayed long enough then they could work things out, make things better. But they couldn't ever do that if Ignis left.

He didn't know what he'd do without Ignis. 

'Noct?'

He couldn't lift his head to look, see the disappointment that he knew would be on Ignis' face. He pressed his eyes shut because they were burning, threatening to start crying. He sniffed loudly, too, because his nose was about to run as well.

Ignis exhaled, shaky, small. 'Noct,' he said. 'I won't leave you, if you don't want me to. And I'll stay if you want. Whatever you want. Please, Noct, don’t cry.'

'But—'

'What do you want?'

Noctis looked up, and sat there while Ignis leant forwards until he tipped off the couch and shuffled across the room on his knees. 'Noct.' The sound of his desperation froze Noctis, holding him paralysed as Ignis arrived between his legs. For a second Noctis thought Ignis would touch his knees, could already feel the heat and weight of him on his skin, but instead Ignis placed his hands on the cushion either side of Noct's legs, bracketing him in.

He was still staring down, stupid, when Ignis said: 'Noct, please tell me what you want. I can still — whatever it is, I'll do it.'

Without meaning to, Noctis reached out and grabbed the shoulders of Ignis' jacket. Ignis was shaking.

'You,' Noctis said. 'I want you. I — of course I do, why wouldn't I? Specs, why wouldn't I?'

'I hurt you. They told me, when I wasn't — they said I hurt you.'

'Bullshit. No you didn't.'

Ignis opened his mouth, but all that came out was the sound of a gasping inhale, and then exhale, shaky. ‘Oh,’ Ignis said.

‘Who said it? Who said you hurt me?’

‘No,’ Ignis said, immediately withdrawing, and Noctis knew with a bite of frustration that he wouldn’t be able to get it out of him, at least not now. ‘No one. I just — why didn’t you—’

Noctis almost would have said it was a decoy away from whoever fucker told Ignis that lie, except that Ignis was still withdrawing, looking sideways. He was pulling back, trying to tug his shoulders from Noctis’ grip.

‘Why what?’

‘Nothing,’ Ignis said, promptly, but it was too late, because Noctis wasn’t letting go of this one, too.

‘Why didn’t I what?’

‘Noct, it’s nothing; please forget it.’

‘It’s why didn’t I visit you, right?’ The realisation hit even as he was talking, the words falling from his mouth the same instant he knew, one hundred percent, that it was exactly what Ignis meant. He felt his stomach drop, go cold, then his whole body burn hot with shame.

‘Please,’ Ignis said again. ‘That was stupid of me. I realise they must have told you no if you’d asked, and tried to dissuade you from asking besides. They didn’t allow me my phone. Not even a computer with internet access. My uncle stayed with me. He didn’t want me to come back for months.’

‘Specs,’ Noctis tried to say, but Ignis shook his head and cut him off. His hands on the couch were balled into fists.

‘I was only allowed back because I said exactly the right things to the doctors, and begged  _ very well. _ Noct, I would have been back sooner. I should have been. I’m sorry I wasn’t. I kept — I sat there, waiting to hear that you’d been hurt, that they’d succeeded this time, only I kept thinking too that maybe they simply wouldn’t say and I wouldn’t know until I got out, and—’

Noctis let go of his jacket to grab him properly, hands around his upper arms, but then didn’t know what to do with him — push him away, pull him closer. Ignis was breathing hard, forced slow and deep, his head dipped, clenching the cushions of the couch like they were his lifeline. The muscles in his arms twitched and jumped under Noctis’ hands.

‘It’s fine,’ Noctis said, without knowing why it was fine, or if it even was fine. ‘Ignis, it’ll be fine. You’re here now. No one hurt me.’

‘And I’m here to stop them, now, if they mean to,’ Ignis said.

Noctis paused. Then he said, ‘Yeah. I know. Specs, stay with me? For the night. We can go to yours and grab your stuff, then come back. You can cook. Sleep in the spare bedroom if you want, or share mine. If you didn’t mind, I mean. Just for tonight. If you want.’

Ignis’ ragged breath held for a moment, then turned into a quiet laugh, equally ragged. ‘Yes. I can do that,’ he said. ‘I’d like to do that.’

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Ignis stood. ‘Come on, then, Noct,’ he said, and smiled, not quite the way he always did, but close enough. ‘We’d better hurry if we don’t want to be caught by my uncle getting back from work.’

He offered a hand. Noctis took it and let himself be pulled up.


End file.
